


Ultraparallelism: or, In Which Optimus and Megatron Discover that Some Paths Do Eventually Intersect

by DexxxtroDNA, zuzeca



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Bath Sex, Blow Jobs, Consensual Sex, Dildos, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, EM Fields, Exhibitionism, F/M, Fantasizing, Fingerfucking, Fisting, Gladiators, Glasses, Gossip, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Intercrural Sex, Librarians, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation Interruptus, Other, Porn, Porn Video, Porn With Plot, Pornography, Pornstars, Public Claiming, Public Sex, Roleplay, Rough Sex, Sexual Frustration, Shame, Size Difference, Sticky Sex, Tentacles, Threesome, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism, Wheeljack is a tactless aft, Wrestling, sexy librarians
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 18:10:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DexxxtroDNA/pseuds/DexxxtroDNA, https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuzeca/pseuds/zuzeca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a changing dynamic between Optimus and Megatron, and everyone but them notices a pattern.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Captain, we've got a spatial anomaly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MlleMusketeer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MlleMusketeer/gifts).



"We've got some high energon readings over here, might be the 'Cons again," said Ratchet, grumpy from hours of staring at endless complex data flows. He didn't need Optimus to ask him - he just entered the coordinates and pulled the switch on to open the groundbridge.

"Autobots, roll out."

 ---

Arcee was the first to arrive and immediately drove behind a large crate, transformed and checked corners, then motioned for the others to follow. It appeared that their arrival had not yet been noticed. Bumblebee took up a position opposite her, back to the rock wall, blaster readied. The big guys brought up the rear as stealthily as they were able. Ratchet had placed them in a side tunnel. Movement forward was cautious, precisely timed to afford cover and the ability to watch the other members' blind spots.

"Scan for hostiles," said Arcee. Bumblebee was quiet, squinting in concentration. He chirped back. "It looks like it's just unarmed miners," she translated.

"If we remain undetected, we could gather data about this location and return without causing harm." Optimus's voice was deep enough to be more felt than heard.

"I agree. I'll take point, Bee keeps scanning, and you two watch our backs. I don't want us to lose any advantage," said Arcee. She was glad that she ran tactics on most missions now - she did have the most training. But part of her wondered if her increased responsibility was related to the slight detachment she had begun to notice in their leader. She couldn't afford to think about that now.

\---

Bulkhead interrupted Arcee’s call to base for pickup. “Uh, I think we’ve got us some hostiles...” Three Eradicons on patrol were very close but wouldn’t be able to see them for a few more seconds. Arcee overclocked her processor, debating whether to remain hidden but risk discovery if the patrol rounded their corner, or bug out now with a great big burst of green light, which would assuredly draw the enemies’ fire. If they waited, they’d be immediately backed into a corner and a deadly crossfire. She chose the latter. “Now, Ratchet!” The portal opened with just as much flare as she’d feared, drawing confused shots from the patrols. “Retreat, let’s get out of here now!” she yelled. No point in being quiet anymore. The Autobot team fought to suppress the Eradicons’ fire. Bumblebee backed into the vortex first, followed by a reluctant Bulkhead. Optimus nodded very slightly, indicating that she should retreat before him. It was only then that she felt the immense surge of a familiarly powerful, terrifying presence that could only belong to one bot. Too late to turn back, the whirling green light enveloped her and cut her off. She stumbled into the silo, fighting to not show her loss of control on her face, but it escaped in her voice. “Ratchet, we have to go back.”

“Why?” The medic turned around, clearly expecting to see a taller figure behind her. “What...where is Optimus?” His ability to shift from irritatedly self-absorbed to deeply concerned was striking.

“He had me go back first, and I didn’t sense _him_ there until I was already through.”

“Who, Arcee?”

“Well, I think we all can guess,” rumbled Bulkhead.

Bumblebee beeped something that made Arcee glad Jack wasn’t around to ask her to translate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ultraparallel theorem is from non-Euclidean, hyperbolic geometry and it was pretty and suited the theme of this work. If you really want to know, here's a link http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ultraparallel_theorem -Dex


	2. No Holds Barred

Optimus readied himself to face his greatest adversary again, mask snapping shut, eyebrows pulled together, voice gravelly as he declared: "Megatron."

“What, no welcoming party? I’m surprised you’re here on your own, _Prime_.” He strode closer to where the Prime stood in a standoff with Megatron’s subordinates.

“It was my choice to remain behind.”

“So you wanted to see me, is that it? Surely not to negotiate.” He motioned for the Decepticons to lower their weapons, but remain alert.

“I cannot allow you to disturb human mining operations,” said Optimus.

“Your concern for indigenous lifeforms is touching, as usual. If you must know, they all fled in terror.” Megatron smirked. “At least, I am presuming they did so.”

Optimus tensed at the barb. “Megatron...”

“Come now, Prime, surely you are capable of appreciating a joke.”

“There is no joking to be had when human lives are at stake, Megatron. It appears that I have no choice but to fight you.” Optimus extended his blades and rocked his weight to his back leg, anticipating Megatron’s next move.

“I didn’t think you were the type to hold a grudge!” Megatron couldn’t help but to antagonize his old friend, to provoke him out of his habit of taking the moral high ground in every single argument. He stepped forward aggressively, powering on his blaster, daring Optimus to deal the first blow. Red streaked by his left optic - yes! He'd succeeded in goading the law-abiding ever-righteous Prime into striking first. He'd put a crack in that stoic exterior because he wanted to see if Optimus had any emotion, anything of his former self left.

Megatron couldn't think beyond blocking Optimus' next punch, not when his adversary was fresh, keyed up, laying into him with that fire in his optics. He could see how Optimus' mouth would be set, narrowly determined, even beneath the battle mask. He grinned sharply - this was an Optimus he knew. His excitement at winning the argument — well, the part that mattered to him — was cut short when Megatron realized that Optimus didn’t completely deflect his latest punch. Instead, he remained a bit open, barely enough to catch Megatron’s outstretched arm and force him to grapple. _So, he wanted to fight this way?_ Megatron thought, smirking.

Megatron tried to use his size to gain advantage, remain in too close for Optimus to strike him again. He loomed, about to tell Optimus how he _will_ crush him this time, when Optimus’ weight unexpectedly shifted and Megatron found himself on his back. The last time he’d been laid out like this was long ago, and Optimus crashing immediately atop him had shocked him then as it did now. The sheer force of will behind his actions never wavered, regardless of motivation.

Fighting with Optimus was such an immediate, tactile experience, more like the gladiatorial matches of old with the way his hands moved independent of his will, his only thought to block the next punch, the next strike. Yet Megatron could not regret his inability to exert the full force of his long-range weaponry. Not when every blow highlighted Optimus’s strength, when every hold brought to mind other encounters, different in intention but no less fierce.

\---

It was far too reminiscent of times long past for Optimus to ignore the similarity of his current situation. He shifted his torso, attempting to place his leg correctly while avoiding having his shoulders pinned by Megatron’s strong claws. He had to focus on this moment, this wrestling match, this Megatron - certainly not anything that would cause a cooling fan to stutter into action. It was merely a result of the fight, nothing more. He grabbed Megatron's wrist and held it to his shoulder, then pushed his hips up, forcing Megatron's elbow joint in a direction it was never designed to go. But Megatron somehow broke free of the armbar and rose to his feet, clearly seeking to make use of his cannon. Optimus closed in, knocking the arm aside, and blocked Megatron's blows until he was given an opening to throw the former gladiator to the floor again. He was not about to let this opportunity pass, immediately mounting Megatron's back and attempting to crush the energon lines in his throat.

Megatron’s head dipped forward, the low prongs of his helm catching Optimus’s wrist, holding back the crushing force to prevent damage to the lines. Optimus expected a reciprocal blow, perhaps an elbow to the chest or a slash at his legs, one repeated a thousand times over the centuries in an endless cycle of strike and counterstrike, but it never came.

Optimus tightened his grip, pressing Megatron further into the earth, battle computer whirring furiously, but Megatron still didn’t move. His chassis was hot, not unusual for such a vigorous battle, but now that they had stilled Optimus could hear him panting, soft and ragged, an indication that his core temperature had exceeded the capacity of his cooling fans.

Despite himself, concern flickered through him. It was rare that he has more than a picosecond of advantage over Megatron, so why could he not take it now?

A slightly deeper breath beneath him was all the warning he had before Megatron rose up from beneath him with the force of a mountain and he was thrown off. Rolling to regain his feet, he found Megatron standing, helm lowered, back to Optimus in a way that did not so much clash with battle protocols as smash them to bits.

Again concern pricked him and he found himself hesitating, his blades and blasters sheathed. Hesitating perhaps because of something not that Optimus sees, but that Orion _saw._

“Megatron?” he said, and it was beyond foolishness but he could not help reaching out, pausing just before his fingers can touch Megatron’s armor. “Are you alright?”

His right hand was already a blade, turning aside Megatron’s sword before it could eviscerate him. Sparks flew and he fought against Megatron’s mass as it threatened to buckle his arm.

“Have a care for yourself, _Prime_ ,” Megatron snarled, optics blazing with heat and hatred and...something else.

Optimus had no chance to interpret it however, as Megatron swept his legs from under him and sprang away, up, transforming as he did so and took off through the central mineshaft, leaving Optimus to sprawl in the dust, his chassis hot and his spark aching.

As the thunderous echo of Megatron’s passage faded, Optimus became aware that he was surrounded by Eradicons, all of whom appeared to be frozen.

“Um,” said one, tentatively lifting an energon cube. “We surrender?”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a picosecond because I know how long that is. Cybertronian time units are unique in that one term is frequently used to refer to two or more actual demarcations of time. - Dex


	3. Crossed Wires

Megatron landed roughly on the top deck of the _Nemesis_ , surprising the deck crew and denting the hull in his frustration. He straightened and focused on measuring his steps into the hatch, letting his anger take over...for now.

Starscream greeted him in typical simpering, sycophantic fashion. "Lord Megatron, I heard reports that you encountered an Autobot ambush. I trust you have returned victorious?”

“As I am not lying deactivated at the bottom of an energon mine, I should think the state of my victory to be obvious,” Megatron said shortly, stalking past Starscream and making for his quarters.

“I only ask, my lord, because the Eradicons indicated that you left rather _hastily_. Did you perhaps find the newly revived Prime a bit too...much to handle?”

Starscream’s words sent an appropriate flare of rage, and an inappropriate surge of heat through him, and Megatron wheeled, looming over his Second, “There is no question of my ability to ‘handle’ Optimus Prime, Starscream. There has _never_ been.”

Megatron's response sent Starscream backpedaling and grovelling, but his effect on his second in command didn’t make him feel better now. He wasn't in the mood for tormenting Starscream -- no, he wanted a rematch with the one bot in his class, physically and mentally.

Drawing his energy field tight to his body, no need to give the crew more to gossip about, Megatron stormed off towards his quarters. They were unlit, as was much of the ship, to minimize energon waste, but he did not need visual input to find his berth. Flopping down atop it, he took stock of his components.

Core temperature elevated, as though he needed an internal report to tell him _that_. Battle protocols still engaged if the rapid rhythm of his engine was any indication, but here, within the privacy of his quarters, he could no longer dismiss the throb of his spark as merely leftover battle fire.

Megatron had always mistrusted his own desire. Lust was understandable, strong and consuming yes, but easily set aside. Desire was far closer to that slippery, treacherous feeling that once tied an old gladiator to an idealistic data clerk, so long ago. As such, his indulgence in this particular base impulse had been rare. But if he wished to wrangle his body back under control, it seemed as if it must first be sated.

Settling himself, he reached back into the depths of his memory banks, searching for a memory almost as old as the planet they currently orbited. He deliberately omitted the pointless trappings of the memory, the way Orion had crept into his quarters during a match and surprised him, the electric taste of the cube Orion had brought him, Orion’s smile, all sweetness and seduction, and focused on the image of the young data clerk on his knees. Opening his interface array and freeing his spike, he stroked it, reflecting on the old sensory data, the heat and pressure of Orion’s mouth, the rapt expression in bright blue optics, the taste of his own fluids in Orion’s kiss.

Charge built, but slowly and he found his processor wandering to other encounters. He pictured Orion under him, valve a slick vise, face a mask of ecstasy. Such an image had served many times in the past, but now it only provoked a further restlessness, the tight frustration of unfulfilled desire.

Grumbling, he rolled over, trying to recapture the feeling of pressing Orion into the berth, hunching and making a few short thrusts into his fist. The darkness of the room enveloped him and he offlined his optics, attempting to sink deeper into the illusion. He shifted, sending a spike of discomfort from a newly acquired dent and a wholly different memory intruded.

He was pressed to the ground of this primitive planet, filth gumming and clogging his components, the solid bar of an armored arm across his throat. He could feel the throb of Optimus’s spark, strong and rapid from their struggle and suddenly reality dropped away and his legs were shoved apart by a knee between them. It did not matter that he had never experienced Optimus in this way -- his mind helpfully filled in the blanks. There was a digit pressing, teasing in unfamiliar places, but the side of his face was pressed into the dirt and admitting that he wanted more would mean defeat. He resisted but his tormentor knew how to find spots he didn't know existed _within_ himself. He was delirious with the stretch, mingled pain and pleasure and he overloaded, an uncontrolled spasm which began inside and spreads out from his spark.

As he began to regain his equilibrium, he became aware of something strange. The berth below him was streaked with fluids, but his hand was no longer gripping his spike. He began to shift upright, but froze as his valve clamped down, painfully sensitive, around his own fingers.

The uncomfortable aftershock of pleasure was immediately swamped by a wave of something between disgust and guilt. He yanked his hand free without regard to the pain it caused and rummaged beside his berth for something to clean his fingers. His hand closed around a rag and he began to wipe himself down with rough, mechanical movements.

His hands clean of damning evidence, his head began to clear. He frowned down at the crumpled rag in his grip, puzzled at the strength of his response. It had been a long time since he had sought release, it was true, but he has gone longer. What could drive him to...?

He shut down the line of thought before it could finish.

Safer to think of Optimus. While Megatron had always lusted for the thrill of battle, he was wise enough to keep that lust separate from his desire to interface, particularly in reference to Optimus. Nothing good could lie that way.

Perhaps Unicron’s influence resulted in some crossed signals? Though he had felt nothing from the Chaos-Bringer since their encounter in this planet’s core, some residual effects might remain.

Soothed by his rationalizing, Megatron set aside his cleaning rag and rejoined the _Nemesis_ with newfound vigor.

\---

Optimus called the Autobots' base, and wearily requested a groundbridge pickup. The last round of physical fighting and furious arguments with Megatron had him tired of the pattern of stalemates. He wondered if Megatron had come to the same conclusion.

He walked into the main room as if he hadn’t just spent hours attempting to not only match a trained fighter’s legendary strength, but outwit him as well.

“Optimus! You...don’t appear too well,” Ratchet’s expression was one of concern, but edged with annoyance, a testament to the number of times they have had this discussion.

“I can assure you, Ratchet, that I am fine.” He did not feel like submitting himself to Ratchet’s fussing right now, both because he was desperate for rest and because he knew a scan would reveal far more than elevated functions as a result of recent battle.

“At least let me _scan_ you next time!”

Optimus did not respond. He didn’t bother attuning his audials to the chatter behind him either.

He had forgotten so much as Optimus Prime. He’d been unprepared for the way the Primal coding would change him, how closely it would link him to Cybertron itself. And that as Cybertron faded, its people winking out across the galaxy, so too would he fade, until all that was left was the shell of a soldier, despairing of his ability to protect anyone. The constant violations of his protective coding had nearly rendered him an automaton, devoid of desire and unable to make any meaningful connections with his companions.

Then came Unicron.

Unleashing the Matrix had been an easy choice, one supported by both coding and spark. But though he had suspected what might occur, had even planned for it, he hadn’t really _known._

By the time of the prophecy's fulfillment, Orion Pax had shrunk to little more than a distant memory. But with the loss of the Matrix the little data archivist from Iacon had come roaring back, bearing with him all the emotions and connections that Optimus had let fall.

He had forgotten that Orion Pax still looked up to Megatron and would do _anything_ for him.

It would be too much to show that he did indeed retain his memories from his time aboard the _Nemesis_. The Autobots and Decepticons alike assumed that he would forget becoming Orion Pax again. In his awkward catching-up after regaining the Matrix, his identity as Optimus Prime reasserted itself so strongly that he completely forgot his second life as Orion Pax. Through his processor evaluations administered by Ratchet and the informal, nervous or angered questions from the rest of the Autobots, he was confused and took some time to answer. It was only after the barrage of concerned interrogation was over that his recent memories as Orion slowly emerged.

He remembered his confusion, suddenly waking up to unfamiliar surroundings - but finding a friend standing anchored amid the chaos. A friend who took him in, helped him adjust, reawakened him. He remembered feeling the chill of the steel beams at night, the creaking of the ship above the dull, distant roar of her engine. His own room was, he knew, a luxury afforded him to ease his transition. But he found that the empty room only reminded him of his social isolation, his disconnection from the quiet life he used to know. There was no comfort in silence now as there had been none in the degraded records.

He found himself haunting the halls of the _Nemesis_ , wandering past rooms of slumbering Eradicons, a ghost of Cybertron, until by chance he encountered Megatron, taking his own restless stroll to escape from memories that Orion could only guess at.

_“Orion,” rumbled Megatron. “What are you doing here?”_

_Orion hesitated. Though part of him longed to discuss the thoughts which plagued him, Megatron had always despised weakness. “I was unable to recharge,” he said at last._

_Megatron opened his mouth, but then paused. Red optics scanned over Orion for several long moments before Megatron seemed to come to a decision._

_“Come,” he said. “Join me for a drink.”_

It was a command, not an invitation, but Orion had joined him anyway. And slowly, highgrade and talk began to break down the wall of centuries between them. So when Megatron, his optics bright with excess charge, had finally reached for Orion, Orion had gone.

Hidden away in his quarters, Optimus allowed himself to sink onto his berth. His chassis was tight with heat and his spark throbbed with excitement and remembered emotion. He knew he could ignore it, slip down into recharge, but it was only a stopgap measure. He needed release, furthermore he _wanted_ release, in a way he hadn’t wanted anything for centuries.

The memory file which he pulled up was recent, barely an Earth month old. He concentrated, allowed the ringing silence of the inside of the base to give way to the rumble of the _Nemesis’s_ engines. The room was dark but for two glowing red optics staring up at him.

Sliding back the panel covering his array, Optimus traced the edges of his valve, recalling the heat and pressure of Megatron’s spike inside him. It contracted beneath his fingers and he felt the internal mechanisms cycle on, sending a wash of lubricant through it.

He prodded the interior, reflecting on the grip of Megatron’s claws on his thighs as Orion had rocked against him, allowing himself to remember the expression on Megatron’s face, lust and satisfaction, but beneath that wonder and a touch of fear, as though Orion might vanish before his eyes.

It was the expression which sent a little, tender pain through him. Coding which he hadn’t possessed as Orion activated and he was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to protect. Foolish, because even if Megatron wasn’t the enemy he was certainly more than capable of protecting himself, but he couldn’t help breaking the fantasy. Instead of Orion riding Megatron to completion, Optimus pictured pulling off him, urging his legs apart and pressing inside. Imagined covering Megatron with his weight, the warmth of them pressed together.

He was stroking his spike, enjoying the thought of it, when an even more recent memory intruded. Suddenly he was grappling with Megatron, struggling to bear him to ground, but now the blows were caresses and the roughness born of passion that needs to be sated, _now._

He remembered Megatron’s heavy breathing and unusual hesitation in a different light. His chest was pressed into Megatron’s broad back, hand at his throat - feeling the pulse thrum with the heat of the chassis beneath him and he was filled with the strange desire to take, to strike out knowing that his blow would be met, the odd, secure realization that Megatron was more than capable of handling all he had to offer.

Megatron was pushing against him, but Optimus shoved him back down, maneuvering Megatron’s legs apart to expose his valve, which in spite of his struggles was open and dripping lubricant. Megatron made a low sound, one Optimus had heard a thousand times in the heat of battle, now given new context as he thrust his fingers inside him.

Megatron would be tight, he knew this in the same way he knew to expect the next blow, the next lock. He gripped his spike harder, this side of painful, and allowed himself to imagine sinking inside, the ragged sounds Megatron would make as he pushed apart the mechanisms of the valve, hiking Megatron up to open him further, stroking Megatron’s spike until he did not, _cannot_ resist any longer and overloaded.

Optimus surfaced, his chest and hand sticky with lubricant and familiar shame buzzing at the edges of afterglow. He lay quiet, looking up at the ceiling of his quarters, his processor roiling.

It was not so much the desire for Megatron. Those Orion had wanted were few and far between, and it was not easy to uproot centuries of pining. No, it was the nature of the desire, the need to see Megatron submit, the longing to _make_ him submit, that troubled Optimus.


	4. Situation: Normal, All Fragged Up

“Soundwave.” His lieutenant turned to face him, light reflecting off the long, elegant lines of Soundwave's form. "I need your assistance.” A narrow face tilted slightly, questioning. Megatron did not answer, just turned and stomped off the bridge.

Soundwave followed him, used to his leader's lack of social grace. Discussing sensitive matters on the bridge lead to opportunities for backstabbing and perhaps Megatron was thinking ahead in that way this time. Equally likely, Megatron wished him to spy on someone, probably one of his unruly officers. It did not matter.

Megatron directed Soundwave, unsurprisingly, to his quarters. It was not uncommon for his leader to bring him here to discuss matters of a sensitive nature. Between Soundwave’s unwavering respect of his lord’s privacy and Megatron’s own paranoid nature, it was the one place on the _Nemesis_ where one was almost guaranteed never to be overheard.

The door slid shut behind them, leaving them in darkness, but for the glow of Megatron’s optics. Megatron crossed his arms, the faint flicker of his energy field, all that Soundwave could catch with it so tightly drawn, sharp with tension.

“Soundwave,” he said at last. “I have heard rumors regarding the state of the pressure in the engines.”

Soundwave tilted his helm, puzzled, before playing a sound file. “Pressure in Reactor Three’s a bit high for my liking,” said an Eradicon engineer. “Deal with it.” A second file played, a patchwork of several voices, “Included in...my next report...Lord Megatron.”

Megatron shifted, a strange expression on his face. “Excellent. Buildup of pressure should not be ignored.”

Bewildered, Soundwave reached for one of his go-to files. “I...live to serve...Lord Megatron.”

Megatron nodded, his optics darting in the direction of the berth briefly before sliding away. “Of course, Soundwave. Your loyalty is a credit to the Decepticon cause.”

Realization flooded Soundwave, followed by relief. This was not the first time that his lord has called upon him for such services, though Megatron had never before been so oblique about it. He did not presume however, he respected Megatron far too much for that, and even if not, he was no fool. He pulled up another file, “May I...be...of assistance...Lord Megatron?”

Megatron actually hesitated for a moment before giving a brusque nod. “You may,” he gestured in the direction of the berth.

Soundwave bobbed respectfully and climbed into the berth, spreading himself for ease of access. Megatron joined him, an unreadable expression on his face, gaze occasionally darting to the corners of the room before returning.

If Soundwave did not know better he might think, he might almost conclude that Megatron was _nervous_.

Seeking to set his lord at ease, Soundwave opened up his energy field, pulsing invitation signals and pushing out with a sense of calm. Megatron appeared to settle, and when he reached out to touch Soundwave’s plating, it was with familiar confidence.

It had been some time since they have interfaced, so perhaps Soundwave could be forgiven for forgetting how talented Megatron was at this. He squirmed under his lord’s touch, readily pulsing signals of entreaty, which Megatron had always enjoyed in the past.

But now, something was wrong. His begging drew barely a flicker of arousal from Megatron and though he opened his interface array, offering up his valve for Megatron’s enjoyment, Megatron was not eagerly thrusting inside. He stroked Soundwave’s valve, his clever fingers raising sparks, but his interface array remained closed.

While it was not unusual for Megatron to indulge in lengthy foreplay, Soundwave had never known him to do so when wound quite so tightly. He could not shake the feeling that Megatron was still nervous, waiting for Soundwave to do something, but he could not divine what it was.

Several cycles passed without progression, and despite his discipline and appreciation for Megatron’s attention, Soundwave found himself growing agitated. While he would never presume to demand, he tilted his valve in subtle encouragement and invitation.

Megatron’s mouth was a severe line, and Soundwave would think him displeased if not for the ripples of arousal which had begun to flash across his energy field. He appeared to be considering.

Soundwave was about to put forth an offer to reciprocate in some other manner, though his mask barred him from some acts he was not so uncreative as to be limited by it, when he caught a glimpse of something that halted his queued soundfile in its tracks.

Megatron’s interface panel was still closed, but around the edges, Soundwave could detect the faint gleam of lubricant.

Soundwave had seen and recorded many things over the course of his function, so perhaps it was foolish of him to believe he could no longer be shocked, but the sight of _Megatron_ , the knowledge that he had the leader of the Decepticons helplessly turned on and above him, sent his processors through a very brief, but very intense crash.

He momentarily considered the notion of extending his spike and offering that instead, but hesitated. Megatron might not take kindly to the implications. Better to test the waters first. Instead, he slowly unfurled a tentacle, giving Megatron sufficient time to protest without removing any portions of Soundwave’s anatomy, and extended the inner tendrils, reaching.

Megatron let out a long, low hiss, the covers on his breathing spiracles clicking momentarily open and shut, but did not protest as Soundwave traced the edges of his panel, dragging the tendrils through the tracks of lubricant, sending strong signals of touch/taste to his processor that urged him to stroke at his Lord’s sensitive plating and find every single point of articulation to slip between them. He did not consciously recall adding his second tentacle but here he was, doing his utmost to tease open Megatron’s interface panel. Megatron was panting above him, clearly employing his formidable will to remain closed. Soundwave had _tasted_ him and if Megatron would have it, he wanted more of whatever pleases Megatron.

His intention must have translated, because at last Megatron’s panel slid aside, the familiar shape of his spike extending. But, just as Soundwave suspected, beneath it he could glimpse Megatron’s valve, trickling lubricant in a thin but steady stream.

He complied with expectation though and wrapped several tendrils around Megatron, raising small sparks against the sensor nodes stippling the surface. Megatron groaned and pressed into his grip.

From this angle Soundwave could clearly see the slight contractions in Megatron’s valve as he worked his Lord over, tiny glimpses of glowing sensor nodes as the aperture grasped at nothing. And the thought, however daring, however impossible, of entering his Lord made Soundwave’s systems leap towards overload. Soundwave redoubled his efforts on Megatron’s spike, teasing the tip with fluttering vibrations of his tendrils, claws keeping his tentacle steady with light pressure against the base.

Soundwave could not help himself, not with Megatron's valve so readily unavailable, and his spike released, dripping and desperate for friction of any kind. Luckily Megatron shifted above him so he was provided with a convenient thigh - something that had been acceptable before and so he did not seek permission. His optics shutter in relief as he ground upwards, leaving trails of lubricant on the brushed steel of Megatron’s plating. He tightened his grip on Megatron’s spike and his master let out a rough, pleased sound, but does not overload.

Soundwave was growing desperate; he was known for his patience and loyalty to Megatron, but in the end he was only a bot, with ordinary systems hardware, and his stamina was not infinite. He twined his tendrils around the tip of Megatron’s spike, trying to encourage his Lord to thrust against him, processor racing.

He balked at the idea which flickers across his processor. It was a dangerous one, no doubt, but his logic circuits were offering him images of Megatron’s panel, slick with lubricant, of his valve clenching down, and of the strange, quiet way which Megatron approached him, asking but not asking.

Megatron was thrusting into the slick noose of his tentacles, gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance, intent on his own pleasure. Soundwave watched him for several moments and then, on the downstroke, as his tentacles slid towards the base of Megatron’s spike, he unfurled two tiny tendrils and slipped them into Megatron’s valve, seeking out sensor nodes inside the rim with unerring accuracy.

The response was immediate, and electrifying. Megatron went rigid, his optics flaring bright as his systems cascaded into overload. Lubricant sprayed across Soundwave’s chassis and visor and Megatron’s valve clamped down, tight enough that Soundwave could feel it around those two small feelers. Soundwave thrust up against him and finally, _finally_ overloaded, his processor blanking.

“ _Megatron_ ,” he played, an automatic response. Though his Lord respected Soundwave’s decision to lock away his voice, he was not unaware of the enjoyment Megatron garnered from this particular act and he took pleasure in changing the soundfile in each encounter, that Megatron might hear everyone, from his highest lieutenants to his lowliest recruits, begging for him.

Above him, Megatron jerked, his valve squeezing tight as he overloaded again. “ _Prime,_ ” he gasped out, half snarling and Soundwave experienced a very brief moment of terror at his error.

He had not checked the file tag before playing it, had assumed his distracted processor was more than capable of selecting one which would please Megatron. Had not realized that his strained systems might glitch and bring in a file which had no place in Megatron’s berth.

Soundwave, in his folly, had utilized the voice of Optimus Prime.

His body froze, while his processor overclocked dangerously, fans keening under heavy usage, desperately analyzing the perilous situation he was in. There were thousands of ways that Megatron could retaliate. And it did not help that his tentacles were still embedded in Megatron’s valve.

Soundwave’s frantic, undirected anticipation urged him to escape, or prepare himself for what would surely be all-consuming pain.

But Megatron did not react. His lord was still but tense above him, but he stayed as he was - he might yet survive if he avoided provoking the Decepticon leader’s fearsome temper.

Finally he noticed a slight shift in Megatron’s body and he was abruptly alone on the berth, suddenly cold. He tilted an inquiring but extremely submissive visor toward Megatron’s back and waited, hopeful.

Megatron turned, his face as blank as Soundwave’s mask had ever been, and Soundwave knew that they would never speak of this again.


	5. Thermae

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5 has an illustration! I was bored at Chili’s and decided to channel my inner ten year old with the crayons. :D -Dex

 

Optimus measured his steps as he exited the groundbridge back to base, attempting to hide the true extent of his most recent injuries. He made it nearly to the hallway leading to his quarters when Arcee blocked his path, glaring up at him.

"Just what do you think you're up to?"

"I am merely going to recharge for a while."

"No you’re NOT! Until you tell me what’s going on!"

She would not understand, none of them would. "I can speak to you after I have recovered." He hoped that she wouldn’t press the issue.

“Optimus, I...” Her expression softened.

“If you have some matter you wish to discuss, I can do so at a later point in time.”

She huffed, the winglike fairings on her back slouching. “Fine. But we are going to talk, so you know.”

“Very well.” He turned toward the entrance to the area of the base that he had converted to afford himself some measure of privacy and a berth. Guilt ate at him, the familiar ache that came from putting at risk those he's come to care for as family given new dimension by his own betrayal. For betrayal it was, a betrayal of thoughts if not of actions.

And yet he could not bring himself to stop.

Not when he was amid the heat and chaos of battle, not when he was alone in the alien silence of the old missile silo. Not even amongst his friends and comrades. Perhaps if he had permitted himself to seek comfort among them...no. He could not be seen to display favoritism, and further he might injure them. There had been exactly one bot who he couldn’t break no matter how much he tried - Megatron. He could do _anything_...he shut that line of thought down as another intruded.

Ages ago, long before he’d taken up the mantle of the Matrix, he’d crept down to Kaon gladitorial pits to meet with a mech he had never seen in person, but had spent long hours listening to in the relative anonymity of the Grid. He’d arrived amid crowds of laborers and miners, squeezed into the packed seats and looked out across the arena.

It was there that he saw him.

Megatronus had looked much the same as his counterpart did now, though he had lacked the characteristic fusion cannon, favoring instead a sword and shield. Optimus remembered well that first bout, how Megatronus’s sword had flashed, the clang of metal, the devastating force behind each blow.

But then the memory changed and it was no longer a nameless mech that Megatronus faced, but himself.

Old and new memories merged and as Megatronus lashed out Optimus met him with his own blade. They grappled, Optimus struggling against Megatron’s greater mass. He shifted his weight away as Megatron bore down and they sprawled in the dust of the arena, Optimus using Megatron’s own momentum to roll him beneath himself. His right hand gripped Megatron’s vambrace, bending his arm up behind him and his left hand became a blade, pressing into the unguarded space between two armor plates of Megatron's back.

That day Megatronus had beheaded his opponent as the crowd howled encouragement, but though such thoughts had plagued Optimus over the centuries, he could not bear to think of them here and his mind turned the aggression into eagerness, desperation.

Megatron struggled beneath him, but the sound of his cooling fans was loud even over the roar of their audience, his energy field sparking with conflicted arousal. Optimus’s grip on his vambrace didn’t waver, but his left hand, hidden from the shrieking crowd, reverted to root mode and he slid it down, against Megatron’s interface panel. No longer a threat but an invitation.

Megatron went rigid. “You would not _dare_ ,” he said, a low, angry growl. His back arched as he struggled to hide his face from the crowd, heated air hissing from his vents. Optimus tightened his grip, forcing Megatron’s arm higher.

“Would I not?” Optimus laughed softly, even if it was impossible for them to be heard over the roar of the crowd. His hand, still concealed by their bodies, stroked against Megatron’s panel, feeling the heat behind it. “Should I make you overload here? In front of them? So that they will know, each and every one, that you belong to me?”

He dipped a finger into a seam of Megatron’s pelvic plating and he made a strangled noise. “How should I do it?” Optimus asked. “My fingers? Or should I spike you? Split you open for the crowd, make you cry out?”

Megatron snarled, affronted anger and arousal. “Take me, Prime,” he managed. “That is, if you dare.”

Optimus smiled and tweaked a hidden wire just to feel Megatron jolt. “No,” he said, commanded, because the word had the same taste as when he ordered a soldier in combat, the instant, unquestioning expectation of obedience -“Surrender.”

Megatron tried to buck Optimus off but only succeeded in getting twisted further into Optimus’s hold, his leg pulled, his interface panel pressed up against Prime’s thigh. “Frag you!”

“In the baths, after the match,” Optimus said, clearly choosing to interpret Megatron’s answer differently.

Megatron growled, his expression thunderous, but did not contradict Optimus. He continued to struggle, but clearly for show of the audience, giving Optimus openings to take control of the fight. Optimus flipped Megatron showily, dust puffing up around the mild crash of Megatron’s back to the sands. The crowd gasped and cheered and Megatron’s field flickered with annoyance even as he bared his throat with great reluctance. Optimus straddled him, the mechanical noises of his right arm transforming to a blade causing Megatron to flinch involuntarily, his broad chest heaving from exertion and excitement. In the background, Optimus could hear the announcer’s voice, high with excitement, jabbering away about the specifics of their match.

Optimus brought the blade to Megatron’s throat, gently, careful not to nick or scratch the more delicate energon lines. “You are lovely like this,” he murmured.

Megatron shot him a withering look and did not answer. A tense moment of hushed anticipation swept through the audience, but yes, Megatron clearly raised a finger. The referee came close, jabbed the end of his staff between them to separate the combatants. Optimus reverted his hand to root mode and rose to his feet, offering Megatron his hand.

An excited mutter rippled through the crowd at the show of courtesy. Everything depended on them now.

Megatron took his hand, his grip strong enough to cause discomfort, and pulled himself upright to tower head and shoulders over Optimus. Optimus smiled, holding on for a moment longer than propriety would indicate.

“The baths,” he said. “I will join you soon.”

Megatron’s expression was stony and superior, but he shivered very slightly, a faint rattle passing through the plates of his armor. Despite any anticipation Megatron might feel, Optimus's competitor was still a slave to the whims of the plebian audience, and it was only by their grace that he would leave here alive. That he would surrender, would place such trust in Optimus even in the face of this threat, sent something warm through his spark.

The chanting of the rabble gathered in the stands released Megatron. It appeared they enjoyed the novelty of seeing their favorite champion undone, out of control of a fight that to them, he seemed to throw his entire being into. Optimus had dominated the king of the arena, and now looked forward to claiming the prize that all of Kaon did not know about.

\---

The arena baths were not part of Orion’s memories. Civilians were banned from the areas where the gladiators maintained themselves and even at his most daring he’d only managed to sneak into Megatron’s cell for a brief time. But this now worked to Optimus’s advantage. Not bound by mere recollection, he constructed a lavish space inside his mind - a large, deep pool of solvent, steam rising from its surface and filling the air with a light haze and a harsh but inviting chemical scent. 

It was in this space that Megatron was waiting for him, half immersed as though risen from the depths. His expression was closed, edged with suspicion, but his optics were bright with sublimated heat. Optimus joined him in the pool, humming with appreciation as hot solvent seeped through the seams of his armor, loosening the grime of the arena.

A heavy brush was in one of Megatron’s hands and Optimus gestured towards it. “May I borrow that? Or would you like to assist me?”

In all of his function, Optimus had never known Megatron to back down from a challenge, even one so mild as this and the other mech did not disappoint. He hid a smile as Megatron splashed up to him and extended his arm. Optimus exposed the expanse of his chest and windows to Megatron’s attentions, also ensuring that Megatron must come closer to reach the space between his windows.

As expected, Megatron was not gentle, wielding the brush with only slightly more care than if Optimus were a sparkless machine. One careless swipe caught against the wiper at the base of one of Optimus’s windows and sent a strange shock of pleasure through him. He groaned in appreciation.

Megatron paused, his optics meeting Optimus’s and his field pulsed with amusement. He slowed his strokes, concentrating on the sensitive areas at the base of Optimus’s windows.

Optimus bided his time, content to allow the heat in his interface panel to build. Then, as Megatron brought his other hand into play, running his claws along the edges of the wipers and delving beneath them, he reached out and curled one hand around the sharp edge of Megatron’s pelvic span. “Shall I assist you as well?” His hand slid up to touch the dorsal sheets of Megatron’s armor.

He asked much, he realized. But Megatron only hesitated for a moment before stepping back and turning to grip the edge of the bathing pool. The liquid just rose past his knees and the sight of him, the complex armor of his back and deep purple of his thighs, threatened to undo Optimus.

He meant to tease longer, to use the flimsy cover of washing to explore Megatron thoroughly, but he could not stop himself from stepping forward and pressing himself against Megatron’s back.

He was too short to rest his chin in the small space of Megatron’s shoulder guard not covered with spikes, but he pressed the side of his face against the warmth of his armor. Megatron hitched, a slight movement, but spread his legs. Optimus flattened his hands against the fronts of Megatron’s thighs, fingers slipping beneath hard exoskeletal plates, stroking the thinner, more flexible armor which protected his joints while allowing freedom of movement in battle.

“Open for me,” he said and Megatron’s claws dug gouges into the edge of the pool. Optimus could feel the heat radiating from him, raising steam as solvent contacted hot plating, but Megatron’s interface panel remained stubbornly closed. “No?” He smiled, “Then perhaps you require some encouragement?”

He ignored Megatron’s interface panel for now and applied pressure against his back until he yielded and allowed himself to be pushed over the edge of the pool, raising his hips to a more accessible angle. He retracted his own panel and extended his spike, sliding it between Megatron’s legs and allowing it to drag against his panel.

“Shall I take you this way then? Overload on you and leave you to return to your room without satisfaction?” Megatron shuddered, but his panel did not budge. Optimus started up a steady tempo, his movements transferred to Megatron’s body. “Open for me,” he said again.

Megatron let out a harsh, strangled sound. “Megatron,” Optimus said, no longer just a request, an order, expecting obedience.

Megatron jerked beneath him at the sounds of his designation and his panel slid open. Yet Optimus did not immediately thrust inside him. Instead he allowed his spike to slide through the lubricant coating the array, to rub against the valve opening. It brushed against external sensors, raising small spikes of current.

“Prime,” Megatron’s growl was low and deadly.

“Tell me, Megatron,” he said. “Tell me what it is you desire.”

Megatron’s valve contracted against his spike, a futile grasp. “Don’t be obtuse, Prime.”

“Tell me.”

“Frag me, curse you!” Megatron roared, as Optimus withdrew, a war-bellow if he ever heard one. “Break me, crush me, only cease this infernal teasing!”

Optimus thrust into him and Megatron shouted, the edge of the pool cracking in his grip. His valve was painful, tight and vise-like and Optimus braced his helm against Megatron’s back. “As you wish,” he managed.

He would wait for the involuntary spasms to stop, for the valve to open to him, but Megatron was having none of it, thrusting back against Optimus with brutal efficiency. “Megatron,” he growled in warning.

“I am a gladiator of Kaon,” Megatron spat. “I am the Leader of Decepticons, I am Slagmaker; I am no weak and mewling creature. I am _Megatron_ , Optimus Prime, and you will give me satisfaction!”

He shoved Megatron flat, riding him as he snarled and bucked, determined to make him overload. The grip on his spike was agonizing, harsh friction despite the copious amounts of lubricant leaking from Megatron’s valve. Triumph surged as Megatron clamped down around him and then he was spilling into his fist.

He came online from a soft reboot, his fuel pump working overtime, fans screaming as they struggled to cool his burning body, the guilt gnawing at him only equalled by the sense of overwhelming satisfaction.

Optimus pressed his face into the berth, unaware of when or how he managed to turn himself, and allowed himself a single, miserable groan.


	6. Diminishing Returns

 

After his disastrous encounter with Soundwave, who at least had _some_ sense of discretion, Megatron managed to ignore his baser impulses for a time. Until he was forced to confront Optimus Prime in close combat and he was powerfully and uncomfortably reminded of his...unresolved problems.

He thought to take care of them alone, quietly and without fuss. He very carefully did not think of Orion during his activities, focused upon memories of pinning Soundwave to the bulkhead of the _Nemesis_ , of scratching deep lines into Starscream’s wings, but it did no good.

He had never fathomed that his lack of partners would cause such a nuisance. Lovers were liabilities after all, and even a meaningless fling opened him up for assassination attempts. But now he found himself running short of memories which do not involve Orion and his fantasies...

Well, his fantasies had completely escaped his control.  

He was glad for the soundproofing, for the knowledge that the one bot who would dare to spy within his cabin was sworn to secrecy. His hips rose shamelessly into the air without his permission, his vocal emitter let a pleading moan escape. Seconds passed with no input besides the ghosting air from a deeply amused chuckle teasing his...he couldn’t bring himself to say it so instead his enemy suddenly gave him what he wanted. The berth creaked under the strain of his weight held up on only his heels and helm.

Frag Soundwave to the Pits for knowing his _exact_ points of weakness.

But it was not his silent lieutenant with blunt digits in Megatron’s valve.

It was rough and inelegant, the way he thrust against his own fingers. He ignored the twinges of pain from his claws and worked, singleminded, fighting for overload. He ignored the thought that Optimus’s fingers would stretch without tearing, would reach further, stimulate sensors that despite his best efforts he was unable to access.

At last he overloaded, more of a mortified hiccup than true release and collapsed back on the berth, feeling thoroughly disgusted with himself.

Under normal circumstances he would track down Optimus and channel his frustrations into repeated attempts to destroy the Prime. But as Optimus appeared to be the _cause_ of his current problems, Megatron is left no better off than he was before.

He indulged himself briefly by driving his blade through one of the interior walls.

\---

Optimus tried to read himself into recharge, ignoring his impulse to let himself get carried away by inappropriate thoughts yet again. He shifted on the berth, attempting to find a comfortable position, datapad in hand. It was a long, dry history - interesting enough to keep reading, but the lilt of the old academic Cybertronian was calming. The next paragraph mentioned the Hall of Records, where he in his former life as Orion Pax worked as an archivist. He let the memories of the immense space, racks upon racks of data storage, the chemosignature of settled rust and old alloys wash over his processor. It was familiar, a safe space to relax. He used to spend hours sitting in odd corners, reading anything and everything he could get his hands on - often losing track of the passage of time, only leaving once Alpha Trion hunted him down and insisted that no, he could not stay during off-shift.

The serene memories drifted toward what it would be like, if he had stayed late into the night cycle. The Hall would be dark, wrapped close around him comfortingly. He’d been reading in his favorite nook by a window, utterly absorbed in a novella that had been popular long before his creation. The rest of the world had ceased to exist.

He did not notice the soft tread coming closer, he did not look up until he felt the glow of optics on him. A mech stood before him, a bronzy-orange street racer, narrow hips and fancy spoiler, custom rims. “I’m looking for a book on custom paint mixing,” he said, one hand casually pulling the datapad out of Optimus’ hands.

Oh. _This_ vid. Optimus’s fans whirred to life as the lust he had been trying to quell earlier rushed through his frame. He’d checked out “Kelsus’s Private Records 4: Hashiriya’s Hands” many vorns ago and watched it so many times the storage medium had begun to wear out. He sighed, resigning himself to being unable to recharge until he had dealt with his arousal. Couldn’t hurt to remember his favorite vid, terrible music and all.

The flashy mech walked up to an archivist seated behind a workstation. He leaned on the desk, hip jutting out to one side, the camera angle offering a fantastic view of his aft - framed by the pieces of the spoiler. Performers in Cybertronian pornography did tend to have interesting, if impractical, modifications. The ridiculous dialogue at the start did not really matter once the librarian character - Kelsus - stood up, revealing his pearlescent paint. The patron, named Hashiriya, asked to take a closer look, and showered the timid, introverted academic type with praise Kelsus was not used to. The relevant data about paint chemistry was located in a remote section of the library. It was late, the reading areas were powering down, staff beginning to close the Hall for the off cycle. As the orange mech followed the archivist, he kept stealing glances and received shy flutterings of the other’s field in return.

“Aha! This should be perfect,” said Kelsus, stretching up to reach a volume on a high shelf, balancing on the tips of his pedes, showing the long lines and graceful curves of his frame off in the best way possible. Hashiriya couldn’t take it anymore, and opened up his field invitingly, not hiding his blatant interest in the mech in front of him, who turned around and bashfully stared at the record, handing it to the patron.

Optimus usually imagined himself in the place of the shy archivist, so like himself in his former life as Orion Pax. But this time he found himself relating more to the outgoing patron, and soon started imagining himself in Hashiriya’s place. Optimus took the record, then casually put it aside to instead take the hand of the fiercely embarrassed but very interested mech in front of him, who looked up, optics blazing.

“Is that all you wanted?”

“No. I think I want you...if you’ll have me.”

“I...yes,” said the smaller mech, as he bared his throat and pulled Optimus closer. Optimus bent to bury his faceplates in his partner’s neck, gently biting energon lines and hydraulic cylinders. His hand behind the other’s shoulders slipped lower, stroking over heating plates to grope a perfect aft. The little librarian tipped forward on his pedes again, this time to bring Optimus in for a kiss - then broke away to press his lip plates against Optimus’ windshields. Optimus tipped his helm back, lost in what those hands were doing to his abdominal plating, and did not notice that he had been backed into a workstation. Those lip plates trailed down from his chest to his thigh, and _ah Primus_ the librarian gazed up at him, optics intense behind his specialized visor.

"Mm, I want you to keep going," encouraged Optimus and Kelsus did not disappoint, all unrestrained desire behind quiet bookishness in the way he licked up Optimus's thigh to tease at the seam between his blue iliac plates and the cover for his interface array. Ahh, that felt good but he wanted more, wanted to give pleasure as well. Optimus caught up the other mech into a passionate kiss, then flipped their positions, lifting Kelsus up to sit on the workstation and standing between his widely spread legs. Optimus traced patterns over hot plating and the librarian arched up against him, desperately seeking a hand against his interface panel. He kissed Optimus with the desperation formed from charge ramping up, needing an outlet, and let out a longing sigh when Optimus broke contact. But as Optimus trailed kisses down Kelsus’s frame, he moaned through his increasingly heavy ventilations, fans stalling out as Optimus’s lip plates touched his cover.

“Open up for me?” As soon as Optimus spoke, lips brushing the hot cover, it folded out of the way to reveal a valve softly clenching in need. Kelsus tried to stifle a cry as Optimus sucked on a node of the rim, both aware that they were in a semi-public area but somehow that only increased Optimus’s desire to have this mech screaming his name. The librarian’s optics shuttered behind his visor as Optimus licked his valve, charge crawling from valve to glossa and back again, slicked with conductive lubricant. Kelsus tried to muffle his cries for more but Optimus could tell his partner’s control was slipping and thrust his glossa inside.

“Ah, please, I want...” pleaded Kelsus as Optimus rose up to face him.

“Tell me what you want,” Optimus gently demanded, venting hot exhaust against a delicate helm finial.

“Your digits, please, I need...”

Optimus bent to swipe his glossa over the other mech’s sensitized valve rim once more, then offered a digit to Kelsus’s lips. He sucked eagerly, and he keened in pleasure as Optimus pressed his digit against an exterior node before slipping inside his valve. Optimus could feel the valve calipers fluttering around his digit as he sought the anterior nodes inside. He stroked them rhythmically as Kelsus lost himself to panting, soon chanting for more, please, more. Optimus obliged him, and Kelsus’s hips twitched to meet the shallow thrusts of his digits. He kissed Kelsus deeply, and felt his spike straining pressurize behind his interface cover - but he wasn’t ready to use it yet, not until Kelsus was worked up past his first overload.

“Optimus, I want another.”

“Who knew the little archivist was so kinky? You sure?” he teased.

“Yes, yes I need it!”

Optimus relished the awed expression on the Kelsus’s face as yet another of his digits slowly disappeared inside the valve. He slowly, gently fragged the euphoric Kelsus with his entire hand. Calipers squeezed around him rhythmically as he focused completely on his partner’s pleasure. Kelsus was still trying to keep quiet, but Optimus didn’t care about being discovered anymore - seriously, Alpha Trion had been functioning long enough to see _everything_ \- and thrust with his hips, the motion pushing his fist further into Kelsus’s valve, hitting terminal nodes and the librarian yelled lustily. Optimus drew his hand out almost entirely and Kelsus whimpered, then moaned as Optimus slammed home. Kelsus babbled encouragement as Optimus drove in and out of him, and soon Optimus felt the telltale spasming of Kelsus’s valve and he kept up the pace even as his arm hydraulics protested and Kelsus came screaming into a spectacular overload. Kelsus was beautiful in overload, his face perfectly open, optics shut tight, mouth open and Optimus caught himself wanting to see that expression on Megatron’s face. He groaned and gripped himself tightly, unable to escape the image of Megatron before him, aftershocks shaking that great frame.

Megatron, still dazed from the force of his overload, collected himself enough to kiss Optimus, then stroke Optimus’s interface panel, coaxing it open and stroking Optimus’s spike to full pressure, clearly not done yet.

“Turn over,” Optimus commanded.

Megatron threw him a knowing look and obeyed, bending himself over the desk, baring himself to Optimus, who pushed his chest into the surface and ordered him to spread his legs further. Optimus knew Megatron couldn’t see what he was doing, so he stroked up Megatron’s thighs then suddenly closed in to bury his face in Megatron’s valve. Megatron squirmed, his desire to be spiked clear, his optics shining behind the visor that had inexplicably stayed on. But Optimus took his time tasting Megatron.

“Frag me, please...!” Megatron was far gone, claws gripping the desk.

Optimus lined up his spike and thrust shallowly, holding Megatron’s hips still, and Megatron growled in protest. He sank into that slick heat slowly, moaning against Megatron’s back. He controlled the pace at first, but soon let go of Megatron’s hips and every thrust he made was matched, their bodies crashing together with abandon. Megatron took all of him, clenching rhythmically, driving Optimus to overload and he wouldn’t last long but Optimus didn’t care, he was almost there.

“Optimus!” screamed the mech below him, that voice tipping him into a synchronized overload with Megatron squeezing around him. Coolant pounded through his lines as he held Megatron through their afterglow.

He fell into recharge, satisfaction relaxing his entire frame. A part of his processor whispered that he should be guilty, but he could not bring himself to acknowledge that now, not when he felt so _good_. Why should he deny himself any longer? He imagined his field synchronizing with Megatron’s as they held each other, unwilling to let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kelsus is named after <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Library_of_Celsus>  
> and Hashiriya
> 
>  <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hashiriya#Japan>
> 
> is the Japanese word for street racer, so ya know. Also, our Cybertronian porn headcanon has feeds for visual, audio and EM fields. Not the same as live EMF, of course, but hey, they’ve got one more sense than humans ;) - Dex


	7. Interruptions

Optimus returned to the base with the other Autobots, having made a hasty retreat after an elite squad of Vehicon seekers dove in, combining strafing that had them scrambling for cover with bombs that blew their protection away. Team Prime was quiet and disappointed, nursing injured limbs on the communal shuffle toward Ratchet’s medical bay. Their leader headed for his room and no one even commented; it had become routine for him to disappear following most missions. What none of them would admit was the increasingly obvious correlation of Optimus’s disappearances occurring after encountering Megatron.

Optimus was selfishly glad that his compatriots just let him leave, and he walked ever so slightly faster than was his custom to his quarters. He barely managed to shut the heavy rolling bay door before his interface panel snapped open of its own accord. He leaned against the wall, bracing himself with one hand. His free hand gripped his spike and he was back in the the fight, his focus on dueling Megatron alone.

It was inelegant, nearly brutal, his processor unable to construct anything more refined than the heat of Megatron’s body, the oil and energon scent of him, the strength of his blows. He set a breakneck pace, his grip just shy of painful, when his comm activated.

_Ping._

Oh, Primus, he did not need interruption _now_.

_"Optimus, please come to the command center."_

He dismissed it - he only needed a little bit longer. He bent his helm, brows drawn tightly together, shutting out everything but sensation and memories. Megatron beneath him, the sound of hydraulics, the way he resisted, the--

_"Optimus, please come in. You’re needed in the command center."_

\--sounds he made, the purple flash of his inner armor on his legs, visible one moment and then hidden from view as they rolled across the ground, raising clouds of dust and he parted Megatron’s thighs and--

_"Optimus?"_

\--his panel was already open, valve trickling lubricant and Optimus thrust forward--

_"Optimus, are you there?"_

_"Slag it, Ratchet, can’t you wait a few cycles?!"_

There was a shocked silence, a slight buzz on the comms.

_"Optimus, are you...feeling alright?"_

He struggled to form a coherent sentence. _"Ratchet, I assure you...that I am feeling...fine."_ Hopefully he had concealed his heavy breathing and assuaged the medic’s worries for the time being.

No such luck, after a pause not long enough for Optimus to resume his fantasizing. _"Now see here, Optimus, you may be the commanding officer of this outfit, but your health is_ my _responsibility and you’ve been far too lax with your post-mission check ups and I have given you...krrrrsssh"_ He could only imagine Ratchet’s indignant huff and disbelieving grumbles, and knew he had only a short time before the medic _would_ stomp down the hallway after him. If that cynic got here before he was done...an image of Ratchet pressed back against the wall, his legs dangling helplessly, head thrown back as Optimus fragged him flashed across his processor.

But the image, though delightfully stimulating, was quickly subsumed into an image of Megatron bent double between the two of them, his mouth on Ratchet’s spike, a look of awe and shameful arousal on the confused medic’s face as Optimus fragged Megatron hard and fast. It proved to be the final stimulus needed to push him over the edge. His fingers slipped against the wall and fluid sprayed against it as he overloaded. Shaking, he braced himself and forced away the impulse to slip into a soft reboot just as Rachet pounded on the door of his room.

“Optimus, open the door!”

There is no way he could meet Ratchet in this state; he hunted for something he could use to clean the fluids from his body. And his wall.

“Optimus open the door this instant or I’m cutting out the lock!”

There, a pile of soft, fiber sheets left by Agent Fowler’s people at one time or another. He snatched up one and began to wipe himself down.

“Optimus...” Below Ratchet’s voice he could hear the hum of an arc welder engaging.

It struck Optimus how absurd it was that he should be frantically cleaning himself, like a new recruit caught self-servicing on duty. Honestly, the title of Prime used to carry a bit more weight.

He shoved the filthy rag into a spare storage space and yanked the door open just as he heard the high scream of metal beginning to bend to a cutter. Ratchet jerked back, startled.

“May I help you, Ratchet?” He congratulated himself that his voice didn’t shake. “Perhaps you might enlighten me as to what was so critical that you felt the need to invade my privacy and damage my door?”

“We’ve detected an energy signal on one of the southern continents, possibly a Decepticon mining operation.”

Optimus resisted the urge to sigh. Though it was important that they track the Decepticons in order to plan a raid, Ratchet almost certainly could have waited a cycle or two before informing him. “Let’s roll out,” he said, pointedly ignoring Ratchet’s suspicious look as he headed for the command center.

\---

Megatron crashed to his hands and knees as soon as the door to the captain's quarters on the _Nemesis_ slid shut. He could not think about how much he did not like being in the control of something else, because the hold it had over him now was too insistent. There was no point in trying to resist, there was nothing he could do but give in. He tried getting satisfaction in other ways, but look how well _that_ worked. The memory of Soundwave’s tentacles within him hit him hard, his valve clenching around nothing behind the panel he was struggling to keep closed. The delicate tendrils seeking out the sensitive spaces within his transformation seams became gentle strokes and strong fingers gripping his thighs. He arched into the fantasy, his claws slicking with lubricant as he felt hot exhaust against his interface panel, a teasing bite to his aft. He had almost gotten himself worked up to feeling as if he was at the mercy of his friend, his enemy’s merciless touch, when he was interrupted with a soft commlink request.

He briefly considered trying to suppress his impulses, but he’d never been good at that and continued, sending back a brusque, automatic response indicating to Soundwave that he did not wish to be disturbed.  Soundwave and whatever he wanted could wait. He was _Megatron_ , Lord of the Decepticons - and currently fantasizing furiously about the leader of their enemies bringing him to his knees, running a blunt digit over his interface panel cover, encouraging him to look up into those blue optics then down to the spike before his faceplates...

Soundwave pinged again, with more urgency, apologetic tags attached to the message. It set off alarms in his processor, for Soundwave to push past his demand to be left alone the matter must be truly dire, but he found he could not stop, could not push aside the thoughts of how Optimus might taste, the heft and weight of his spike.

Another ping, accompanied by a databurst. Autobots, _Prime_ , a raid on a recent mining operation; he groaned around his fingers, sucking desperately, and overloaded, the burst he sent in response a garbled, distracted mess.

There was a significant pause and then Soundwave sent a small query, with concerned tags.

Shaking, Megatron struggled to clear his processor and indicated he was on his way, ignoring the previous message. Staggering to his feet, he reached for his usual cleaning rag, only to find it soiled beyond any use. Cursing he rummaged through his small stores for another, wiped himself down and stomped off down the corridor.

The Autobots, as usual, had the most inopportune timing.  


	8. Scuttlebutt

“I’m telling you, I’m not imagining things,” said Bolter, optic visor bright with excitement. “They’re fragging!”

“You’ve gone and blown your motherboard,” said Basher, shaking his head.

“Who’s fragging?” said Nightjar, flexing the transformation seams on her blaster to shake out any debris. “If this is another one of your cracked theories about the medic and Commander Starscream I’m going pull out your vocalizer through your exhaust port. I lost three orns of highgrade rations on that stupid bet.”

“No, not Knockout,” said Bolter, waving his hands in a placating gesture. “Lord Megatron!”

“Lord Megatron and Commander Starscream? Well, not entirely unexpected, I suppose. Heh, if the Commander can handle that maybe I should look him up,” Nightjar laughed.

“Maybe if you gagged him,” said Basher.

“Hm, tough call, I can think of more than a few uses for his mouth.”

“Hey, listen!” whined Bolter. “I didn’t mean Megatron and Starscream were fragging, I meant Megatron and Optimus Prime are!”

Nightjar halted so fast that Basher narrowly avoided crashing into her. “Lord Megatron _?_ And _Optimus Prime?_ ”

Bolter nodded furiously.

“Impossible,” said Azimuth while the others were still trying to regain their wits. “At the risk of stating the obvious, they hate each other. Scrap, they spend large quantities of time trying to deactivate each other with extreme prejudice.”

“That doesn’t mean there isn’t room for a little hanky-panky,” said Bolter.

“A little--never mind, whatever fragging euphemism you want to call it by, it’s not happening. End of story,” said Azimuth.

Bolter crossed his arms in annoyance. “Haven’t you ever had someone that you hated but you still look at them and say yeah,” he jerked his head in an absurdly serious nod, “I’d hit that.”  

Basher looked like he was about to smack Bolter, but a look from Azimuth stopped him. They had reached the section of barracks where they were all quartered. A familiar voice behind them startled Bolter.

“For once, Bolter’s right on the payload here,” Hawkeye stepped out of her room, the door swishing shut behind her.

“Hawkeye, sir! I didn’t see you there,” Bolter stiffened. Hawkeye didn’t respond.

“I would think that with your propensity for scuttlebutt, Bolter, that you would know that it’s common knowledge that our leader and Orion Pax were...close before the events that led to this war,” said Basher.

“Bolter is of the opinion that Lord Megatron is currently in an...interfacing relationship with Optimus _Prime_ ,” stated Azimuth to Hawkeye, his field coloured with disdain, and obviously seeking to defuse the situation.

Nightjar folded her arms and cocked her hip, “You wouldn’t happen to have any _useful_ information?” She actively disliked the AWACS, finding her nosy and resenting her for occupying the position of alpha femme in their social ranks.

Hawkeye appeared to consider for a moment, a face the others recognized well. “During the most recent hostilities with the Autobots, I observed both parties appearing to show unusual restraint and engaging in a higher percentage of grappling to standing close-quarters combat. They hardly used distance attacks, which is most unusual for Lord Megatron.”

Basher motioned and the others drew close in around Hawkeye, even Nightjar.  Hawkeye continued, “I was able to detect appreciably higher thermal output and my analyses of their body language has led me to conclude that they are indeed _affected_ by each other’s presence. From what I have ascertained it has become Lord Megatron’s habit in recent orns to seclude himself following combat involving the Prime, but I have no data on whether they are actually fragging,” one side of her mouth upturned slightly in a teasing grin.

Basher and Azimuth shared a meaningful look. Usually, Hawkeye was the absolute _last_ bot they would expect to not only take part in shooting the scrap, but here she was actively feeding the inevitable clusterfrag of scuttlebutt that was rapidly starting to sound like blackmail material. Basher shifted his gaze to Nightjar, then back to Azimuth.

“I could always just ask Soundwave,” offered a highly amused Nightjar.

“Brilliant idea,” deadpanned Azimuth.

“I bet you know where his quarters are,” teased Basher.

“Why don’t you believe me? Next time you guys are out and the Autobutts show up just watch them, seriously!” Bolter pleaded.

Hawkeye just stayed silent and let the chatter wash over her audials.

“...then it would make no sense! How else would Commander Starscream end up with those scratches?” said Bolter.

“I’ll admit, the spacing of the claw marks do appear to match,” Azimuth said thoughtfully.

“How do you know they aren’t mine?” Nightjar intimated.

“Nightjar, everybody knows you talk a lot of scrap,” countered Basher.

“And want to frag half the officers,” muttered Hawkeye under her breath.

“Hey, can I borrow your buff kit?” Bolter interrupted.

“Of course your processor goes from fragging to buffing. Kit’s under my bunk but I want it back and no I won’t swap, go find somebody else,” grumbled Basher.

Bolter whined. “But it’s between shifts for deck crew and I’ve got...”

“OFFICER ON DECK!” someone shouted.

They all straightened to attention. Soundwave continued pacing down the corridor, stopped, cocked his helm for a second, then turned to Hawkeye.

“Sir?” She could feel his field, inquisitive and probing. It was strong but not uncomfortable, but that could be because she had grown used to his eccentric manner, as she often reported directly to him.

“Interrogative...Lord Megatron," said Starscream's voice, tone reasonably polite. “...has been behaving strangely," Knockout's voice was suspicious, a stark contrast to Shockwave's statement, cool and logical. "What are your observations?”

She could not refuse. “Sir, I have noticed that recently during confrontations between Lord Megatron and Optimus Prime, they have mostly been grappling, and rarely use long range weaponry.” She could see her reflection in his visor. “Additionally, infrared scans of their chassis have been turning up consistently higher values, and my analyses of their body language indicates...” his helm tilted ever so slightly, “something more than fighting.”

All of the Decepticons just stood there, tense. This could go very badly for any or all of them.

Soundwave turned, and indicated with a graceful hand for Hawkeye to follow, then dismissed the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The group of Decepticon flyers chatting away above are original characters, set to appear in an upcoming fic by Dex.
> 
> "Scuttlebutt" is US Navy speak for "gossip" or "water cooler conversation." <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scuttlebutt>
> 
> Hawkeye's a <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/E-2_Hawkeye>, hence "AWACS" is used to refer to her altmode. I'm so original...but I grew up loving this plane. XD -Dex


	9. In Case of Emergency, Break Protocol

“So if this is a meeting,” said Smokescreen. “Why isn’t Optimus here?”

Ratchet made a disgruntled huff. “Let’s call it a ‘casual discussion’, rather than a meeting.” 

“It must be a pretty important ‘casual discussion’, if you called me and Ultra Magnus back from patrol.”

Ignoring Smokescreen, Ratchet addressed the group at large. “Have any of you noticed anything...off lately? About Optimus?”

Nobody spoke, just shuffled awkwardly, some fans chuffed as Autobots shifted their weight nervously. Arcee frowned, looking thoughtful. “Define, ‘off’?”

“Any behavior that might indicate something might be amiss with him.” Ratchet hesitated. He was walking a fine line here, he risked implying Optimus might be incompetent, but he needed information, and confined to the base, he could only observe so much. “In the field or out of it.”

“Optimus has always stuck by himself,” said Bulkhead. “But lately I’m lucky if I see him in the halls after a mission.”

“He’s more evasive than usual,” said Arcee.

“I have not noticed a great behavioral change in our leader,” said Ultra Magnus. “But his battle methods have become rather different of late. He rarely engages with Megatron from a distance any longer.”

“Do you think,” Arcee paused. “Do you think this is because of something Megatron did? Something left over from the time Optimus was onboard the Decepticon warship?”

Trust Arcee to cut to the quick of the matter. “I am unsure,” said Ratchet. “I would not think that any...programming or other such surprises Megatron might have tried to implement with Orion would have survived contact with the Matrix, but Optimus stated he had no memory of that period. Before I would have assumed he would come to me with any health or processor issues, but now, I am not so sure.”

“Wait, wait,” said Smokescreen. “You think that _Optimus_ got reprogrammed into some kind of sleeper agent or something? That’s crazy!”

“I don’t _think_ anything at this point,” said Ratchet with a grunt of irritation. “But the fact remains that Optimus’s behavior has become increasingly erratic.” 

“I don’t think ‘erratic’ _quite_ covers it,” mumbled Wheeljack, who was fiddling with something mechanical on the workbench, a bit away from the rest of the group.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t _hear_ that!”

Wheeljack turned abruptly, banging his half-finished creation down and folding his arms defensively. “I said, we _all_ know Optimus has been overclocked with no heatsink, but the real question is why he hasn’t just grabbed somebot and fragged ‘em sensorless already.” He jerked his thumb in Smokescreen’s direction. “Scrap, just pass it off to the kid as a mission or something.”

Ratchet spluttered in outrage. “Well, I never--!”

“That is highly inappropriate, Wheeljack. Not to mention a violation of military protocol.”

“Oh cram a circuit board in it, Magnus. It’s not as if the kid wouldn’t trip over himself to get under the boss’s plating. Wouldn’t you?”

“I--I don’t--” 

“If you’re worried about the size, I gotta a whole case of stuff to help with that on board the _Jackhammer_.”

“Wheeljack!”

“Wrecker, you are two microns away from an official reprimand.”

Wheeljack made a sound of frustrated derision. “So tack it on the list, isn’t like there aren’t more where that came from. But if we don’t get our fearless leader back to his tall and toeing-the-line self, we can expect a whole mess of trouble from a bunch of organics with atomic weapons and twitchy trigger fingers.” 

Nobody said anything for a moment. Ultra Magnus cleared his intakes, stuffily uncomfortable. “Wheeljack, unfortunately, does raise a pertinent point. Agent Fowler has already begun to inquire after Optimus’s health.” 

Bulkhead fidgeted, staring at the floor, then broke the silence. “Uh...I think Miko’s figured it out too.”

“Whatever is going on, I am certain that it is, ahem, not regulation,” muttered Ultra Magnus.

“Just because I’m the medic does _not_ mean I am explaining this situation to the humans,” Ratchet said. As if he didn’t already have too much of an out of control situation on his hands. He wasn’t manufactured for delicate operations that required interpersonal tact. Honestly, he wanted to smack some sense into Prime, but Optimus had successfully closed himself off recently to the point where he wasn’t sure if that would just make everything worse.

He sighed heavily. “Do any of you have any ideas about how to deal with this?”

“Tie him up and demand answers?” said Wheeljack.

“I have half a processor to agree with him,” Arcee jerked a thumb in Wheeljack’s direction.

“Perhaps something a little less extreme,” said Ultra Magnus, his field pulsing disapproval. “Optimus Prime is still your commander.”

“You _said_ he hasn’t been going to the medbay after being in the field,” said Smokescreen slowly. “Maybe we could all get together and do a little ‘convincing’?” The air quotes were telling.

“That is somewhat unorthodox, but I suppose you are our...unconventional tactics specialist.” That was about as close as Ultra Magnus ever got to complimenting...well, anyone really.

“Smokescreen, what do you propose?” said Arcee.

“Alright, so next time we get back from smashing some ‘Con ops, make sure the big guy isn’t first or last outta the ‘bridge. Then, we just kinda...herd him into medbay.”

_“Yep, shouldn’t be too hard,”_ beeped a confident Bumblebee.

“Then you suppose I am to do all of the work?” said Ratchet.

“Uh, well, you _have_ known him the longest...” mumbled Smokescreen, studying the floor.

“I believe that it is standard protocol for any Autobots held captive to have a follow up evaluation six decacycles after reintegration,” said Ultra Magnus.

Ratchet could have kissed him. “And failure to do so can result in being relieved of duty,” Ratchet nodded. “Yes, yes that might just work.”

Spurred on at the prospect of constructing a battle plan, Ultra Magnus indicated the remaining Autobots. “It is unlikely that Optimus will leave the battlefield before Smokescreen or Bumblebee, so I recommend that you two go first. Bulkhead and I will bring up the rear. As for the rest of you, exercise your best judgement and we should be able to trap him with little difficulty.”

“Done,” said Ratchet. “I’ll be expecting you.”

\---

Ratchet scanned over Optimus’s medical data, a mindless, cursory exercise. After megavorns of war, he knew the charts and files as well as his own. The most recent data had been gleaned just after Optimus’s time onboard the _Nemesis_ and though he’d given his leader a clean bill of health, there were things he hadn’t the spark to mention to Optimus, especially considering the absence of his memories surrounding that time. Small things, a burned out relay here, a shorted node there. Indications of an overload.

Indications of interfacing.

Ratchet was no fool. He knew that Orion and Megatron had been close before the war. There was no reason, gifted with what he had wanted for eons, that Megatron would have bothered to control himself.

He’d hoped it might be nothing, that Optimus might slip back into his place among them, none the wiser. But now, faced with his leader’s increasingly erratic behavior he began to fear that even if Orion’s suffering aboard the _Nemesis_ had been consciously forgotten, it had not vanished entirely.

The sound of the activating groundbridge pulled him from his thoughts. Through the doors of the medbay he could hear Smokescreen and Bumblebee’s chatter, Arcee’s voice, high and firm and then they were all crowding inside, Optimus in their midst.

He looked quite flummoxed to find himself there, arms raised slightly as though he feared bumping into the smaller bots clustered around him. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Protocol,” announced Ultra Magnus, slipping smoothly up behind Optimus and blocking his exit. “It is approximately six decacycles since your stint in captivity. You are overdue for a medical evaluation.”

“I,” Optimus glanced at Ratchet with a glimmer of alarm in his optics. “I assure you I am fully functional.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” said Ratchet. “Magnus, if you please.”

A quick scramble and the rest of the Autobots scurried out of the medbay, Ultra Magnus shutting the doors behind them.

Optimus frowned, glancing at Ratchet. “That was a clever ploy.”

“Magnus is a brilliant tactician,” said Ratchet dryly. “On the berth.”

“Ratchet…”

“You get on the berth or I finish filling out the forms to relieve you from duty,” said Ratchet. At Optimus’s affronted and betrayed expression, he softened his tone. “You are worrying me, Optimus. You are worrying _all_ of us.”

“There is nothing to be concerned about,” said Optimus dully. “Only my processor playing tricks on me. It will pass.”

Ratchet risked stepping closer and laid a hand on his forearm guard. The plating under his fingers was hot, crawling with charge and Ratchet could just catch the ozone scent of arousal. “I am not here to judge you, Optimus. I am here as your doctor, and as your friend.”

Sighing, Optimus conceded and sat on the berth. Quickly, Ratchet moved about him, taking scans, comparing the new data against previous checkups. “You’re running hot.” 

“I know.”

“How long?”

Optimus hesitated. “About six decacycles now.”

Something twisted in Ratchet’s core. “Since the _Nemesis_.”

“Yes.”

“Optimus, we never talked about this fully. You said you did not remember your time as prisoner. Has this remained the case? Have you started remembering things?”

Optimus was silent for a very long time. “Not ‘started’, I began to recall shortly after your last checkup.”

Ratchet sucked in a breath. “Optimus, listen to me, during your checkup, I…”

Optimus looked at him oddly. “You what, old friend?”

“I found some indications that...Optimus, do you recall being abused onboard the warship?”

Optimus’s optics dimmed. “I was beaten by a group of Eradicons, if that is what you are referring to.”

“Nothing else? Nothing that Megatron did?”

Optimus looked puzzled. “Megatron? He was quite angry, but he never struck me.”

“He didn’t do anything else? He didn’t interface with you?”

Optimus’s mouth went tight. “We did, just once,” his tone was subdued.

“I feared as much. Optimus, you should have come to me right away. There are procedures for handling this sort of thing, therapeutic programs.”

“Therapy? Because I interfaced with Megatron?”

“That is the standard protocol for a prisoner who has suffered abuse.”

Optimus’s expression shifted to one of comprehension. “Ratchet, he didn’t, that is, it was consensual.”

“You were amnesiac, Optimus.” Ratchet bit back the urge to get angry, that would not be productive in the least and might destroy their tentative rapport. “You were not capable of giving consent.”

“I…” Optimus went quiet. “Perhaps not technically. But Orion...Orion wanted it, whatever that means. Whatever it is worth.”

Ratchet’s hands clenched. Trust Optimus to excuse something monstrous in regards to his person. “It clearly affected you,” he bit out.

Optimus dropped his gaze, regarding his hands where they sat limply in his lap. “It did,” he said quietly. “But not, I believe, in the way you think it has.”

Ratchet swallowed back a protest. “Help me understand.”

Optimus sighed. “I am not certain that I can. I do not know if there’s a case in recorded history of a Prime giving up the Matrix only to regain it later. When Orion came back, he brought more than I could have imagined. Ratchet, do you know what it is like to be suddenly thrown back vorns into one’s past - complete with all your hopes, your fears, your dreams - and yes, your loves? I was unprepared for becoming that person again. The shock of having the Matrix reintroduced to my frame did scramble my memories for a time. I am sorry I did not tell you that I did remember, later. I was...ashamed.”

“Optimus, I have known you for a very long time. I would have hoped that by now you could trust me enough to tell me these things.”

“Very well. I… _wanted_ , I desired Megatron in a way that I had not before. I did not know how to process it, and as you have noticed, this…has only become worse with time.”

Ratchet was uncertain what to say. “It grieves me to say this, Optimus, but as much as you might wish it otherwise, I do not think it wise or safe for you to express this desire in any other way.”

Optimus drew air in through his vents, feeding the fans he was struggling to keep quiet as his body showed no sign of letting the charge creep away over time. “I believe I understand your concern, old friend.”

Ratchet coughed uncomfortably. “Have you considered, er, dealing with the problem? I would never presume to inquire after your self-servicing habits but in this case, well...I might have to make some off time a professional recommendation.”

Optimus blinked at him and looked distinctly uneasy. “I...I have attempted that already.”

_Of course you have, because Primus forbid anything in life be_ easy. Ratchet cleared his intakes. “Then the only further suggestion I can make is leave-time.” Not that there was any possibility of that, but considering that he feared Optimus’s psyche might be degrading, they might have to make it work.

Optimus shook his head. “You know as well as I that is not a possibility.”

“Something must change, Optimus.”

“I will take your suggestions under advisement,” said Optimus wearily. “For now, rest easy in the knowledge that I am not going to collapse in the middle of a mission. I shall do my best to resolve this quietly.” He rose from the berth and made for the medbay doors. “Thank you for your concern, old friend. It is appreciated.”

Ratchet turned, drawn to a faint clatter somewhere in the medbay. When a quick scan turned up nothing, he sighed. Probably just some poorly stacked equipment finding the floor again.

\---

Knockout heard the doors to the medical bay open and shut behind a familiar clicking strut. He didn’t look up from his research. “Starscream, what can I do for you?”

“Ahh, it has come to my attention that our illustrious leader is acting rather...odd, lately,”

“And?” Knockout was really not in the mood for Starscream’s games.

“It would be remiss of me, as his second-in-command, if I did not look after his well-being,”

“So you want me to check up on him, is that it?”

“Why else would I be asking the Chief _Medical_ Officer?”

“Very well, I’ll put in a request for a physical examination.” Knockout could already feel his ability to focus slipping.

“I want you to do it _now_!” Starscream lost his patience, but Knockout was having none of it.

“I don’t believe that’s necessary,” he suddenly realized what Starscream was up to and his tone dropped conspiratorially, “..ohh. Of course, Commander. I’ll get _right_ on it.” No way he was getting any more work done. He closed his workstation and headed for the door. “Coming?” 

Starscream startled very slightly, then exited before him. ”I believe he is currently in his quarters.” They walked in silence, the Eradicons in the hallways making room for them. When they reached Megatron’s door, Knockout pressed the keypad several times, but received no response. He looked back at Starscream, who shrugged, then huffed impatiently. “Try the comms.”

“At this hour?”

“Urgent medical issue, remember?”

Knockout shot an aggravated look at the seeker. “Lord Megatron, my apologies for disturbing you at this time, but you instructed me to inform you if I found anything on... long term adverse effects of...dark energon use.” Starscream gave him a look that completely failed to be reassuring.

They received no answer. Knockout turned to leave, but Starscream pushed the door console repeatedly. “Doctor, I believe you have override codes for the living quarters?”

Knockout absolutely hated when Starscream pulled scrap like this. He sighed, “I do, but they are to be used in case of _emergencies_.”

“Isn’t it extremely unusual for our leader to not respond to our calls?”

Knockout wasn’t going to get anywhere, not with Starscream in this mood, and overrode the lock to Megatron’s personal quarters. He had barely taken a step inside the room when he was bodily thrown out the door to smash into the wall by an enraged Megatron, who then saw his air commander. Starscream yelped as Megatron grabbed him, claws digging into his plating. 

“Do you not understand the meaning of a locked door?!” Megatron thundered.

Knockout stayed where he fell, crumpled below the dented wall. Not like he was in any shape to get up, and he certainly didn't want to provoke Megatron further. As he watched his leader menace and admonish a whimpering Starscream, his specialized medical sensors noticed that the larger mech was running unusually hot. And what was that glimmer? His chemosensors were suddenly slammed with an unmistakably recognizable conclusion. "Oh. Oh my," he thought, before pinging Breakdown.


	10. Coverage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scroll down for one of Dex's doodles...nsfw this time!

“So what happened to ya earlier?” Breakdown carefully pulled out a dent in Knockout’s back plating.

“Lord Megatron expressed his...ow!... displeasure at being interrupted during recharge hours early this morning.”

“Well, why’d ya bother ‘im?”

“Starscream _insisted_ that I give him a check up, citing recent strange behavior, and you know how he gets....”

“Mmm,” Breakdown never got tired of helping Knockout with maintenance.

“At least I wasn’t completely blamed for this time.” Breakdown could feel his partner relax into his touch. “I did notice something off about Megatron, though.”

“Oh?”

“He seemed _particularly_ displeased to be disturbed at that time. And had obviously been...indisposed,” Knockout put it delicately.

“Had a houseguest in his bunk?”

“Oh, he was very much alone. I don’t think he needed _medical_ attention. If I knew any better, I'd say our illustrious leader has gotten himself severely...frustrated. But you didn't hear that from me."

“Heh, seems he's not above gettin’ normal bot problems.”

”If it were a matter of simply burning off surplus energy, we wouldn't have this problem. I'd wager quite a few bots on this ship would be eager for...extra duty. Clearly, something's got him overclocked with no heatsink."

"Megatron's not gettin’ what he wants and makin' everyone feel it," Breakdown stepped closer to Knockout, hoping that his attempt at subtlety worked.

“He most certainly is,” Knockout winced, remembering his unceremonious ejection from Megatron’s quarters.

It didn’t work. Breakdown turned his buffing to slower, longer strokes.

“Mmm, that’s good,” Knockout purred his finely tuned engine at idle.

Breakdown let his hands linger a bit, opened up his field, full of appreciation for the long lines of Knockout's beautifully proportioned form. His hands drifted to Knockout's sides, slipping around his waist, carefully avoiding any injuries. Knockout leaned back against the solid comfort of his partner's body. They stood there for a time, enjoying each others’ presence, letting their fields play off one another.

“Ya know what would be real nice right about now?” Breakdown’s hands began to wander, up over headlights, down around hips, over helm crests.

Knockout turned to face his partner, “Surely, you wouldn’t be suggesting...?”

He could tell that Knockout was aroused but apprehensive. Probably didn’t want his finish to get more dinged up today. But he had an idea, and took the opportunity to start a step toward Knockout, pushing the other mech back toward a workbench. The medic’s backstruts bumped against the edge and Breakdown received a curious glare.

"Jus’ lie back and let me take care of you," he offered.

“I must say, I like the way you think.” Any apprehension Knockout had disappeared under that sultry drawl Breakdown liked so much. Breakdown drifted his hands down Knockout’s chestplates, caressing a narrow waist then cupping his aft. Knockout understood what his mate was doing and wound his arms around Breakdown’s neck as Breakdown lifted the smaller mech up to seat him on the workbench. Knockout arched up to press his helm against Breakdown’s, then took Breakdown’s lip plates in a bruising kiss.

When they broke apart, Knockout’s fans were whirring away, radiator cooling the powerful V12 engine rumbling inside. Breakdown kissed down his partner’s neck, gently biting at his shoulders, and swiped his tongue in a wide swath along Knockout’s grille. Knockout’s small hands went to his chest, but Breakdown ignored his own reaction - for now, he wanted this to be all about his partner. He teased between transformation seams on Knockout’s chest, vented air into the intakes on Knockout’s torso, earning a giggle.

“Stop teasing, you fragger...ah!”

Knockout’s engine dropped from second to shift up into third, purring as Breakdown nuzzled his interface hatch. He thought that Knockout might tease him a little as he had in the past and keep his hatch closed, make Breakdown work for it, but it slid open right away. Breakdown pressed in close, catching his spike as it pressurized. Breakdown made a muffled, amused sound as it slid into his intake and Knockout reached down and rapped, light and scolding, on his helm before cupping it, urging Breakdown to take him deeper.

Lying back with a sigh, Knockout offlined his optics and let Breakdown explore as he would, variations in speed and pressure that Breakdown knew would keep him hovering at a steady plateau of sensation, not so close to overload as to be desperate for it, but still, very pleasant. For all that bots said his battle tactics lacked refinement, Breakdown was nothing if not a maestro at sucking spike. Knockout wouldn’t have anything less.

Easing off, a motion that drew a pouting noise from Knockout, he muscled the other bot’s legs up onto the platform of his shoulder guards, tipping his pelvic span to a more convenient angle. Knockout’s valve was already trickling lubricant and Breakdown quickly licked it up, pressing the flat of his glossa against the exterior sensors.

Knockout moaned and arched. “Thank Primus you’ve got such a big mouth.”

Breakdown laughed, close enough that Knockout could feel the vibrations. “Sit up, I wanna see your face.” Breakdown didn’t let up on Knockout’s spike, large hand completely encompassing it, thumb swiping over the tip right before the downstroke. Knockout obeyed, too far gone to give any snarky protest. Breakdown made sure his partner’s optics locked with his before bringing a hand down to tease the outer rim of his valve, before slowly inserting a digit. He loved this part - watching every minute expression change on his partner’s face, always so open and beautiful.

Knockout moaned quietly, optics shuttering as Breakdown curled his digit to stroke a particularly sensitive cluster of sensors - slowly at first, but then picking up the pace. He didn’t forget about Knockout’s spike either, squeezing rhythmically to mimic the contractions of a valve’s calipers.

He watched Knockout’s face above him, the way his mouth stayed more softly open than shut, biting his lower lip when Breakdown slowly added a second digit. Knockout hissed in pleasure, trying to grind down on Breakdown’s hand, but Breakdown held him steady. “Careful, don’t want you ruinin’ all that hard work I did.” He got only a glare in response, but Knockout’s expression melted into a soft whine, his engine roaring along as Breakdown thrust his digits into his dripping valve. He accelerated the pace, Knockout’s legs clattering against his shoulders, valve beginning to spasm around him.

“C’mon, let me hear you,” he growled with a particularly hard thrust. Knockout gasped, his whole frame tensing as he let out a loud throaty groan. Knockout began moaning with every puff of exhaust, getting readily louder. Breakdown’s spike strained painfully behind his interface cover and he released it, his other hand slipping down to give himself some much-needed relief. Despite his focus on Knockout, he couldn’t shake the compulsion to check his surroundings. Sure enough, he caught sight of a camera trained on them. He shuttered his good optic in a wink. He’d give Soundwave something good to polish himself to.

“Ah, Breakdown, I…” Knockout struggled to speak, “...frag me!” Breakdown added a third digit and Knockout threw back his helm and yelled, his engine hitting the rev limiter, the gorgeous curves of his frame arched into Breakdown’s relentlessly thrusting digits. Charge crawled across Knockout’s plating as his headlights flickered erratically. Breakdown knew his partner was close, and was sure to hit valve sensors just right, and he reached up to trace a finger along the inside of a wheel rim.

Breakdown closed his lip plates around Knockout’s twitching spike, glossa flicking up the underside. Knockout didn’t like being messy. He sucked on the tip, then sank down, lip plates kissing plating. He allowed Knockout to buck, knowing that it was he who had made the unbelievably spectacular mech fall apart beneath him. He hummed in self-satisfaction, earning a cry from Knockout.

The exotic sports car squirmed beneath him, squealing like tires on a sharp curve taken too fast. Hearing his partner’s sultry drawl had always gotten him going. Didn’t much matter what he said, and at this point Knockout was beyond words. Knockout’s hips pumped up into his intake -- once, twice -- and Breakdown managed to glimpse Knockout’s face, grimacing in pleasure. Transfluid spurted against the back of his intake, and he swallowed repeatedly. Knockout screamed and clutched at Breakdown’s shoulders, scoring them with his sharp claws, valve clamping and rippling around Breakdown’s digits.

Breakdown shot a warning look at the camera. _That oughta show him._ Soundwave could look all he wanted--scrap, he was kiddin’ himself if he didn’t admit it got his plating hot--but he was the only one who got to touch the absolute perfection that was Knockout. He fisted himself hard as he let Knockout’s spike retract, but didn’t remove any digits from the still fluttering valve. Oh no. He wasn’t even _near_ done with that yet.

Knockout’s frame relaxed briefly, but Breakdown didn’t let up, using his thumb to activate sensors on the rim of Knockout’s valve, sliding through lubricant. He gave one last lick to Knockout’s depressurizing spike before removing his fingers, earning a satisfied moan, before dipping his helm to nibble at the inside of Knockout’s thigh.

Knockout squirmed and laughed, “Get on with it, you giant lugnut, before I get bored and weld you to the berth.”

Breakdown smirked and nipped sharply at his thigh before pulling back. “Right away, sir.” Bracing Knockout’s legs, he struggled to his feet and draped them on either side of his pelvic span. Sliding one hand down to get a grip on the back of his thigh, he pushed Knockout’s leg up, exposing his valve, and sank in. Knockout hissed, his claws gouging the bench.

His field pulsing with amusement, Breakdown bent over him and started up a steady pace very much out of joint with how fragging hard he was. He was wound up alright, but it was always more fun to play a little dumb. “How’s the angle, sir?” he said, thrusting in deep and grinding in a way he knew would compress the exterior sensors on Knockout’s valve.

Knockout jerked and moaned, struggling to respond. “Very good, recruit. Just like that.” Panting, he squirmed on Breakdown’s spike, trying to thrust back in spite of the lack of leverage. “Perhaps a bit faster.”

“Really, sir?” said Breakdown innocently. “How much faster?”

Knockout shot him a poisonous look. “Do you want it in RPMs, soldier? Faster, now!”

“Yes, sir,” said Breakdown, quashing the urge to snicker. He picked up the pace, relishing in the way Knockout moaned and grabbed for his forearm guards, static sparks leaping from his fingers as a result of Breakdown’s long building charge.

The workbench groaned under their combined weight and the force of Breakdown’s thrusts but held steady -- it always had before. Breakdown adjusted the angle of his hips, driving up and into Knockout, hitting the exterior nodes repeatedly with the ridged surface of his spike. Knockout keened and bit his own lip plates, his legs trembling, tried to speak but fritzed static. Breakdown smirked. “What was that, sir?”

Knockout spat out a binary curse. “Stop fooling around and make me overload, soldier!”

“Oh?” said Breakdown, going deep on the next thrust and grinding on the withdrawal. “I thought that’s what I was doing.” He leaned over Knockout, pressing nearly flat to his chassis and made a series of minute thrusts over a cluster of deeply buried nodes. “ _Sir_ ,” he breathed.

Knockout snapped rigid under him, claws biting into Breakdown’s paint job and leaving long weals. His valve clenched tight, compressing all of Breakdown’s sensors at once and charge crackled through it, creating a temporary feedback loop with Breakdown’s systems. He howled, vocalizer letting out an earsplitting squeal and Breakdown could no longer hold back his overload.

Breakdown pressed deeply into the spasming sports car, moaning as his charge was grounded, leaping through his spike into Knockout’s nodes with a rush of transfluid. Sagging over Knockout, he tipped his head back and fixed his optic on the ceiling.

_Suck on that, Soundwave._ Winking didn’t have quite the same effect with only one optic, but he bared his dental plates in a smug grin.

There was no indication that he’d been heard or seen, other than a creeping sensation in his sensor net, but the thought that he might have given the old spook a bit of self-service material for the next few orns sent a wave of satisfaction through him.

Knockout rapped on his forearm guard. “Move it, you lug, you’re leaving dents.”

Pulling out, Breakdown arranged his exhausted mate on the berth, stroking his frame as it began to cool. Soon Knockout would demand a wipe-down, and later, a buffing, but for now he seemed content to allow Breakdown this quiet closeness, his field pulsing with approval and contentment.

“So,” he said, running his hand across Knockout’s shin guard. “Do I get a commendation?”

Knockout laughed, a startled, uncontrolled sound that sent something warm through Breakdown’s spark. “Of course, soldier. Always.”

\---

Soundwave received a ping from his surveillance network with a familiar profile. He’d check it after going through the piles of video feeds from the rest of the _Nemesis_.

Something told him he was going to enjoy this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dex has _quite_ a thing for sexy cars. Also Dex wrote Breakdown as a lot of "what would Jayne Cobb do?" and liked the result. Not sorry at all ~


	11. Matchmaker

Hawkeye stepped into an auxiliary computer room, still following her superior officer. As the door whooshed shut behind them, he indicated the terminal before them. “I require your input,” said Shockwave’s voice. “A bit more...personally,” drawled a recording of the Decepticon medic. Ah, he wanted her to upload her raw mission data - complete with her uncensored thoughts. Could she trust him with this?

“All of my logs?” she inquired.

“That would be preferable!” pleaded Starscream’s high-pitched shriek.

Guess she wasn’t the only one that had gotten the idea that their leader was acting strangely. _Here goes..._ She reached for one of the datalink cables for the terminal, only to have Soundwave hand it to her instead. He’d never done that before...he must be quite desperate for this information, she thought. The chief communications officer was not a mech who liked being out of control of a situation.

She flipped open her wrist plating and jacked into Soundwave’s terminal, relaying the relevant files of her overwatch of skirmishes for the past few orns, radio chatter, her tactical calculations, and even her most recent conversation - though Soundwave likely overheard the entire exchange, she thought it best to offer anyways.

“All yours,” she said, disengaging from the terminal. She stood, watching Soundwave work in silence, efficient as always. His frame had great lines - she didn’t mind waiting for him to sort through the files.

\---

Soundwave turned back to the console, and his elegant digits tapped rapidly to bring up a video clip of a recent encounter between his commanding officer and the leader of the enemy. He tapped again, freezing a frame of Optimus pinning Megatron to the ground, their bodies halfway entwined, definitely not in any way conducive for combat. He extended one long digit toward the monitor, then played a clip of Nightjar in full high haughty airs saying “Well, what do we think is going on here?”

“Sir, if these were _any_ other mechs, I’d say they were about to slag the idea of getting a room and go for each other right there.” She tried to keep cool, reminding herself that he _had_ asked her to speak freely.

The third in command of the Decepticons bobbed his head, in the way that indicated he was slightly nervous but agreeing completely.

“Do you know of any others?” stated a voice she did not recognize.

“There’s Bolter, but he’s the boat’s primo source of coolant dispenser chatter. Nobody believes half the scrap he says.”

Soundwave shuffled, almost anxiously. Laserbeak clattered against his chest for a moment before settling again.

“I don’t even know how to crunch numbers on this, given who the relevant parties are. But if he was any other mech? I’d tell him to go for it, get it out of his system. Frag, everyone remembers when he had Orion back for a bit.” Her tone shifted from irreverence, out of the necessity of not being able to talk about this ridiculous situation in any other way, to complete seriousness. “I’ve given you my opinion, sir,” with an undertone of, please, I’m doing you a favor, personal and for the Decepticon cause.

“I can’t have him knowing about _this!_ ” shrieked a recording of an agitated Starscream. Well, she didn’t have to worry about being deactivated for gross insubordination.

“If anyone inquires, I shall state that we had a _private_ chat,” she said. Bolter would have a field day with the gossip, and Nightjar would be attempting to hide her jealousy while making everyone else miserable for it. Perfect cover.

She had the distinct feeling that he wanted to ask her another question, but did not, his field impassive, carefully neutral. After a pause, Soundwave dismissed her with a nod and the Autobot two-wheeler's voice saying, "Thank you." The tone was distinctly sarcastic, but Hawkeye ignored it; it wasn’t as if there were many bots thanking each other on board the _Nemesis_.

\---

Soundwave trawled through his overheard off-base Autobot chatter picked up on recent missions, looking to see what Autobots have been gossiping about Optimus Prime. The seemingly useless background chatter was to Soundwave a rich source of information - if it were sorted properly. He fed the intercepted enemy communications through his complex, highly specialized algorithms, sorting for talk about their leader. Worries about his post-mission condition were much higher than his previous readings. Jokes about the Prime’s sex life had risen six times over the average.

Laserbeak came streaking into the room, chittering excitedly, looping over Soundwave’s head. He opened his arms, welcoming the drone in reflex, and it docked with his torso. It immediately began uploading data, and Soundwave’s knees nearly buckled under the torrent of information. Flashes of dialogue, whispers of images flooded his processor - he was unable to make sense of the data. It was rare for Laserbeak to inundate him like this - it must have brought him something extremely important.

The drone beeped encouragingly. Soundwave picked himself off the floor. At least his symbiote had enough sense to dock where they had some privacy. He stalked over to the console, extending two of his tentacles and jacking in directly. Time to make sense of the jumble of data Laserbeak had gleefully dumped on him.

_You’re running hot._

_I...wanted...I desired Megatron in a way that I had not before...worse with time._

_Something must change, Optimus._

Laserbeak helpfully offered images of Megatron’s face, frozen in a scream as he overloaded, the precise pulsing pressure on Soundwave’s tendrils. Soundwave felt his interface array heat with the memory, and Laserbeak slipped in a looping video file of Hawkeye’s aft as she walked down the hall.

“Shut _up!_ ” screeched Starscream’s voice. “You can be a real pain, sometimes,” sighed Basher’s voice, his tone indicating that he didn’t really mean it. Laserbeak chirred. It just wanted what was best for him, and in its own way, it tried to help.

One of his surveillance programs pinged him.

_...recent strange behavior…_

_Something’s got him overclocked with no heatsink._

_Megatron’s not gettin’ what he wants and makin’ everyone feel it._

He opened the video feed. A scandalous scene flickered to life before his optics - Knockout’s body attractively sprawled across a med bay workbench, a debauched expression on his face. Breakdown knelt between his partner’s spread legs, single optic fixed on Soundwave’s camera, dental plates bared in a fiercely amused grin.

As tempting as it was to settle in and indulge in what was almost certainly an enjoyable show, Soundwave only gave the file a cursory scan for pertinent information. So not only had knowledge of Megatron’s behavior spread throughout the ship, it was beginning to interfere with his interactions with the crew.

Soundwave overlapped his fingers and allowed himself a single, exasperated cycle of his vents. The most logical course of action would be to confront Megatron and lay out the evidence. While his long vorns of service would not necessarily spare him retaliation from Megatron’s anger, he was in the best position of anyone on the ship. He was not above reminding Megatron of their time in the arenas together, not if it bought him Megatron’s audial.

But if he confronted Megatron, to what purpose? He could remind him of his responsibility to the Decepticon cause, even half-maddened Megatron would surely try to modify his behavior for the sake of the war. This could be swept aside like so much metal dust and forgotten, forgotten as he wished he could forget the bewilderingly arousing encounter with his Lord.

And yet…

Soundwave’s memory files ran deeper than most. Events prior to the war came in with equal clarity to those which had just occurred. His time in the Kaon arena was there, just under the surface, and with it memories of a gentle young archivist, in every way the antithesis of a gladiator, who had nonetheless caught Megatron’s attention in a way few ever had.

The rhythmic vibrations of the walls and muted overload screams the next cell over, well, that made it painfully obvious as to what sort of attention Megatronus gave to Orion Pax, the few times he snuck in. They had been so utterly wrapped up in each other, he did not even attempt to conceal his observations after a time. Megatron’s behavior in that ill-fated encounter - it always came back to that - was incongruous with the petabytes upon petabytes of old data. Megatronus and Orion Pax, barely able to get into the gladiator’s cell before the shiny naive Iaconian transformed into a writhing courtesan on the too-narrow berth. Orion Pax’s backstruts, ground into the shared wall with Soundwave’s cell, his field flared so bright and open in overload that Soundwave couldn’t help but arch into his own hand.

Soundwave’s frame shook gently, plating canted out to maximum in a futile effort to cool himself, to not succumb to the dizzying array of tempting surveillance data - _pornography!_ \- screamed his baser codes. He had to keep his own frustrations ruthlessly tamped down, find a solution to this conundrum before it spun further out of control. Setting himself to the task of planning the best approach, he discarded option after option. Confronting Megatron directly had a low chance of success, based on the furtive glances and confounded rage of his Lord when he was penetrated, slick valve clenching down around his two sensor-rich tendrils - no! He had to concentrate.

Upping the speed of his cooling fans and lowering his core temperature by sheer will, Soundwave tried to bring his recalcitrant processors back under control. To reflect upon the truly critical period, the time when Orion Pax had walked the halls of the _Nemesis_ , and the changes it had wrought in Megatron.

Megatron’s manipulation of Orion had been expected. The Lord of the Decepticons did not forgive betrayal easily and the Iacon archives were a project of crucial importance. To ignore such a blessing dropped into their midst would have been foolish in the extreme.

What had not been expected was the swiftness with which the two had reconnected.

Soundwave had seen with his own optics. Felt the restless longing in Megatron’s field when he stood by his Lord’s side, the melancholy in Orion’s as he passed Soundwave in the corridors. Watched them circle, wanting to reach out yet hesitant to do so.

And then, suddenly, impossibly, they’d come together.

He’d been nearby when it happened. Orion’s field had always been unusually strong, and his body was still that of a Prime even if his mind was not. The uncontrolled surge of joy and passion had made Soundwave stagger, putting out his hand to catch himself on the wall of the corridor. Several Eradicons had stopped in their tracks, fields flashing surprise as they looked to Soundwave.

Then as now, he’d mastered himself and continued on as if nothing had happened, but he’d felt a strange sense of calm sweep through the _Nemesis_ , as though a piece long-missing suddenly slotted into place.

It hadn’t lasted. He hadn’t expected it to. Megatron had come too far, sacrificed too much to ever be the mech that had captured Orion’s spark once more. And yet when Megatron returned to the _Nemesis_ after the altercation at the spacebridge, the overpowering rage in his field undercut by quiet despair, something in Soundwave had ached.

Soundwave permitted himself another sigh.

Perhaps this was a rare case in which the most logical course of action might not be the best one.

You would think that planning an operation this slagging _simple_ would come easily, but with a situation this delicate, this volatile, Soundwave knew he had to tread carefully. Simple as in “throw the two glitches in a room and make them work it out and not reopen the door until they’re fragging like petrorabbits again,” but unbelievably complex due to the political situation. Add to that the issue of neither of them being the same mech they had been all those vorns ago and well...you had a slagheap of problems.

There were numerous problems with the idea of locking them in a berthroom, however. What had ever stopped Megatron from making slag of _anything_ in his way? And with the Prime in a combined effort...his plating shivered as glimpses of Orion’s helm, thrown back in ecstasy mingled with his most recent scans of Optimus Prime’s frame and to have their attentions both turned on him -- he had to execute some uncomfortable code strings to keep himself from wandering further into fantasies.

Where then, could his machinations open the way for Megatron to finally get what he so clearly needed?

_...slag the idea of getting a room and go for each other right there._

Of course. It was as painfully obvious as the reason for why he had not thought of it sooner -- he did _not_ need to be thinking about how much he wanted to be pinned to the wall, the floor, over his console -- oh, the console. There had been that one time where Shockwave’s unerring perception and bluntly logical offer had him bent over the workbench (so like the one Knockout and Breakdown were using), queuing up every pleasured shriek or scream his databanks possessed. Technically, he _had_ been helping with Shockwave’s...’research.’

_He couldn’t see what Shockwave was rubbing against his open interface hatch, only feel it, but he knew the scientist well enough to know that the long smooth cylinder was almost certainly more than it seemed._

_Shockwave stroked his dorsal plating. “I must offer you my gratitude, Soundwave. It is not every mech who agrees to help me with my research. At least not without strenuous encouragement.”_

_He pressed the cylinder against the exterior of Soundwave’s valve and he squirmed, resisting the urge to snap back with a soundfile expressing doubt about what sort of encouragement was required._

_“Tragically I no longer have as much time as I once did to devote to more...personal projects,” said Shockwave. “Which makes the time I do have all the more pleasurable.”_

_Soundwave’s fingers dug into the bench as Shockwave angled the tip of the cylinder against his valve. Something pricked at the exterior sensors and the cylinder shifted, revealing that it was not solid, but rather a casing for...something else._

_“Organic creatures really are quite fascinating,” said Shockwave conversationally. “They are not built, they have no vision, no guiding hand in their creation, and yet they have managed to produce so very many interesting structures.”_

_Something slid out of the tube, or rather two somethings. Offlining his optics, Soundwave tried to construct the shape of them by feel. They resembled spikes, in shape and length, but as Shockwave continued to rub them along his valve at an unhurried pace, he could feel complex folds and ruffles, the catch of tiny spines._

_“Yes,” murmured Shockwave. “Your help is greatly appreciated.” He shifted the apparatus and pushed the left structure into Soundwave’s valve._

_Soundwave went rigid with shock, his fans stalling. The folds pressed up against clusters of sensors, stimulating them in novel ways, and the spines scratched gently along the walls of his valve as Shockwave twisted the toy. He shuddered and felt Shockwave’s field pulse with amusement._

_He half-expected, half-longed for Shockwave to pull it out, to fall on him and frag him senseless. The toy didn’t have the same heat of charge to it as a living spike, left his sensors aching for connection. But Shockwave’s field remained calm despite his growing arousal, moving the toy at a steady pace._

_“Most of the others are afraid of me,” said Shockwave, his tone conversational. “But you are not, are you?” He withdrew the toy most of the way and moved his wrist in a lazy circle, stretching out the rim of Soundwave’s valve. “You know as well as I how far a mech can be pushed before they break.”_

_Soundwave’s ventilation hitched as he felt the tip of the second structure at his valve rim and forced his fans to keep running. He bit back a cry as Shockwave pushed it into him but couldn’t hold back a low moan._

_“So helpful,” said Shockwave, running a soothing hand across his exostructure. “Such an excellent subject.”_

Soundwave’s spindly digits had drifted to cup his interface panel, latent charge bleeding out around the edges with conducive fluid. He ran the probability of making it to his quarters undetected and didn’t even get to the secondary factors before giving up and throwing every lock code he had at the door to his office. He liked to think he was patient, but those few who had been around long enough knew that he had his tipping points, and over that cliff was swift, violently efficient action and obsessive drive to his goals. Airachnid hadn’t. His visor’s screen flickered in self-satisfaction. Oh, when Megatron had learned of his loyalty, combined with his joy at having his Lord back - it had seared his spark.

There was nothing quite like raw virgin data to his optics, though - he tapped at the console with one hand, bringing up the archived feed from the medical bay, skipping back to where the vain medic’s backstruts hit the workbench surface. Those grounder wheels, held high and proud like Starscream’s wings. He’d seen the way Breakdown had leered into the camera like he’d known was there - daring him to watch, yet remaining possessive over Knockout’s shaking frame.

He boosted his audio inputs, letting his internal speakers rattle his plating with the low frequencies of Knockout’s engine, so perfectly tuned. Digits teasing at his own transformation seams, tentacles snaking out of their housings, he drowned himself in the rush of data. Plating tessellated open and he stroked around his rim, smearing lubricant.

_Stop teasing_

Fine tendrils wrapped around his own spike, creating a feedback loop of tactile information as he watched Breakdown’s helm bob between the appreciative sports car’s spread thighs. Seeking a firmer grip, he switched his tentacles for his hand, thrusting between long fingers as his freed appendages coiled down to probe at his valve. This was what he longed for, the exhilarating sensation of both taking and being taken. Tendrils slipped into his valve to stroke at the anterior surface - the very same move he had used on Megatron - as his long fingers pulled over the ridges of his spike, hitting those nodes in a way that no mech but himself could, so close to bliss and he crested into overload.

He expected his body to cool, his systems to settle, but the charge did not dissipate. It wasn’t enough, he knew what he needed and--

_All the hard work I did_

He staggered to his feet and yanked open the flimsy wall panelling with deadly accuracy, the metal squealing as it tore. There - he’d actually left it in his cache, among with spare cameras and other scrap. It wasn’t another mech gripping his thighs and bending him over for his hands to brace himself against the wall, but it would do.

Optics focused on the screen as he bent forward, the fingers of one hand teasing at his valve rim, spreading the entrance as his other tentacle rubbed the toy along the outside, slicking it with lubricant. Another one of Breakdown’s digits disappeared inside Knockout’s valve and Soundwave slid the toy inside himself in tandem. Setting the pace based on the action onscreen made it come alive.

Shaking, he knelt, searching for the right position, his processors in disarray as he pushed the toy inside him, head tilted so as not to miss Knockout crying out and overloading into Breakdown’s mouth. Field pulsing with frustration, Soundwave squirmed on the toy, trying to gather the scattered threads of his processor queue--

_Ah...frag me!_

Something firmer, that would do it. He groped for the base of the toy, struggling to recall Shockwave’s purred instructions through Knockout’s moans as he was filled. At last his grasping fingers found the correct activation point and the magnets in the toy hummed to life, jerking it from his hand and halfway from his valve as it affixed to the deck. Gripping his thighs with his suddenly freed hands he tried to ride it, but his legs buckled and he tipped backwards, his back contacting the deck and he could no longer see the screen but he could still _hear_ them.

_How's the angle?_

He lay back on the cool deck, cooling fans whirring, and was surprised to find that he was still filled. He should have known that Shockwave wouldn’t fail him. It was a strange angle, but with an experimental lift and tilt of his hips he found himself grinding onto the flexible frag toy, helplessly chasing overload yet again.

_Let me hear you._

The locks on his voice gave way - no, he _wanted_ them off, it had been so long, and somehow hearing himself moan and gasp as he pounded the toy, not thick enough for what he really wanted but with a knobbed end that stroked his anterior nodes hard, into his aching valve. The volume crept up to shake the deck, surrounding him like the comfortable growl of another's engines. He couldn't tell if the vibration was within him or not as Knockout screamed along with his engine in top gear. Metal screeched as Soundwave’s fingers dug into the metal of the deck and he finally, _finally_ overloaded, optics buzzing with static as his current raced to ground.

His body steaming, he relaxed back against the deck and attempted to get his thoughts in order. Despite the inherent uncertainty in such a scheme, it became increasingly evident to him that Optimus and Lord Megatron’s dance of mutual avoidance must come to an end, if only for the sake of Lord Megatron’s psyche. There was no place on this planet strong enough to hold them, but there were other means of isolation, if one were quick enough, and had access to the correct technology. And if one was willing to bore a few relevant holes in the security feed concerning the Decepticons’ newest energon mine.

He wasn’t Chief Communications Officer for nothing.

He’d bait the trap, and wait for Optimus and his crew to come running. If it turned out to be nothing more than dire mutual need, they’d get it out of their systems. If not, perhaps...no, as Shockwave would say, he couldn’t operate based on what-ifs. He’d wait, and watch.

He removed the toy from his body and winced. Oh, he was going to be sore - his HUD informed him that he'd incurred a minor friction burn along his valve rim. Self-repair could take care of it, but then again...it was such a delicate area, perhaps he should let a medical professional take a look at it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A friend of Dex’s has a parrot, and promptly thought Laserbeak should be just as adorably annoying. Part of this chapter was written with a cat butt between me and the screen. - Dex


	12. Convergence

Soundwave's field was as evenly unreadable as ever, but that did not make it any more ignorable as he sidled up behind Megatron. “What is it?” he bit out, attempting to quiet the part of him which wanted to hurl the intruder away.

“Reports of Autobot activity,” barked out a random Vehicon guard. “Energon mine...Epsilon Five.”

“So?” he said. “Send a squadron to take care of it.”

“It’s the Prime!” yelled a terrified miner.

Megatron covered his fans spinning up with an irritated chuff, spiracle covers clicking. “Fine. I’ll _take care_ of it.”

Soundwave bobbed in acknowledgement and the green glow of a spacebridge lit at Megatron’s side. He walked out to chaos, battle protocols coming online immediately over the report of blaster fire, his sword deflecting a shot he hadn’t consciously processed as incoming. The little yellow scout, of course - always overeager. He paused a moment to survey the mine, his battle computer picking them out from among his troops. The green Wrecker, more dangerous than his rounded frame would indicate. The blue two-wheeler, small but with a deadly bite.

And of course, the Prime.

Optimus was in fine form, tearing through the bodies of Megatron’s soldiers as though they were nothing. Megatron’s fangs bared in a pleased snarl and he leapt forward to meet his enemy.

Sparks flew as they clashed and Optimus bellowed in pain as Megatron sank the points of his claws between plating seams. A sudden, sharp blow to his chassis had him staggering back and then the Prime was on him, optics blazing with battle fire.

Somewhere behind them, he heard the whoosh and roar of an opening spacebridge, but the only thing in his awareness was Optimus, the shift of mass as they grappled, the clash of blades as the Prime sought to gut him and his own sword turned the weapon aside. Another bridge hummed at the edge of his sensors as he roared and slammed his body into Optimus’s.

\---

Optimus turned to smash his elbow into the torso of another charging Vehicon, twisted to shoot at another, and heard the distinctive hum of a groundbridge opening behind him. By the time he’d shifted his footing back in that direction, incapacitating more mine guards, the bridge had closed. He hadn’t called Ratchet, all of his team were still chattering away on the comms, so what could that be about?

No time to think now as he turned away another strike, deflected another blow, sent two more miners flying off to his left. He heard it again, but finding out why was shoved down his priority trees as he saw him. Megatron came charging into his field of view, and he stumbled with the pain of torn plating. He had to bring Megatron down.

Aiming a powerful punch to the thinner plates at Megatron’s waist. Optimus wasn’t fast enough to escape the grab, but twisted enough to bring the blade on his other arm out. He failed, the thrust turned aside as Megatron slammed into him, seeking to catch him off-balance. Optimus shifted at the last second to trip his opponent and dropped his own weight down to pin him.  

Neither leader noticed that their followers were all gone, leaving them alone.

The Autobot leader slammed Megatron’s shoulders into the dirt and paused for just a second to decide if this was the correct course of action. Something in the way Megatron’s optics flickered before his brows drew fiercely together again gave him the mix of courage and glitched idiocy required to speak.

“We cannot ignore... _this_ , any longer.”

\---

Megatron’s processor whirled with the implications, searching for any possible alternative explanation but found none save - Optimus _knew_. It did not matter how but Optimus’s change in tactics hit him right in the one weak spot he could not eradicate. He shifted, attempting to break Optimus’ hold with a punishing strike to the weaker side plating, but gained no opening. If the damned Prime wanted a dirty fight, he’d give him one. He grinned, baring his shearing teeth.

“Ignore the fact that you are incapable of finishing me off?” Megatron immediately regretted his choice of words. Optimus suddenly released the full range of his electromagnetic field, hiding nothing. It was so like him - honest to a fault, the fool. As if he could presume that Megatron wanted to stay pinned, wanted Optimus’s weight atop him...No! This wasn’t what Megatron wanted at _all_.

\---

Megatron infuriated Optimus like no bot ever had, or ever would. He was gripped with the terrifying need to force Megatron into submission, warring with rhetoric which told him that this was wrong, experience which warned him against unleashing his full might against any except an enemy. The Primal coding which spurred him onward now paralyzed him as Megatron’s category flickered between friend and foe, one to be attacked and one to be protected.

“Megatron,” he managed, desperately trying to rein himself in. _Tell me to stop, tell me to leave because if not..._ But Megatron was sneering in that way that indicated he was about to deploy a verbal barb, honed to dig into sensitive places and Optimus’s spark roiled in despair and anticipation.

\---

Megatron didn’t think - he took the first and most ridiculous idea he had to provoke Optimus. “So, you want to fight this way? I have _far_ more experience than you in this arena as well.” The form above him tensed distractedly - he’d be easy to throw off. He smirked. The oh-so righteous Prime would never call _this_ bluff.

\---

He had always thought of himself - Orion Pax or Optimus Prime - as even-tempered, rational, and self-controlled. The impulses he had been fighting had been building with no way to ease the pressure and Megatron’s goading - no, _daring_ him to act upon them fried every component he had for rational decision. He didn’t remember snapping his battle mask back as his mouth crashed into Megatron’s neck cabling and bit down.

\---

Pain receptors transmitted rapidly as the unarmored cables in Megatron’s neck were crushed by none other than Optimus Prime’s dental plates. His surprise arched his back and he groaned involuntarily - he did not expect Optimus to actually rise to his challenge instead of sputtering embarrassment. Megatron didn’t think he’d take the fight in this direction. He’d best be ready though - Megatron does not back down. There was no fragging way he was losing _this_ fight. He slipped a hand behind Optimus’s helm, clawtips gently scoring paint, then stroked down one sensitive audial and threw his field, the force of his _need_. His assault worked - Optimus moaned into his neck, then oh, _sucked_ on his primary cranial energon line. He did so enjoy when events went to his advantage.

\---

Optimus wasn’t quite sure what to make of his current situation - his fantasies come alive, better than he could have imagined - but he knew he did not wish to stop. However, there was one thing lurking in the part of his processor that had abruptly deprioritized after Megatron’s challenge, that he wanted to make absolutely clear. He wanted to know if Megatron wanted this as much as he did.

“Megatron,” he panted, pulling his mouth free of the other mech’s energon lines. Megatron growled, digging his claws in between sensitive plating and Optimus winced. “Megatron, listen to me.”

“What is it, Prime?”

“I must know, do you,” Megatron’s claws dug in further and Optimus swore, ripping Megatron’s hands free of his plating and pinning them to the earth. “Megatron, tell me! Is this what you want?”

Megatron gave him an exasperated expression. “No, Prime, I routinely attempt to access the interface hatches of my enemies.”

Optimus’s brow furrowed. “Megatron...” He jerked back as Megatron snapped at him, straining upwards against the hold on his wrists, fangs clipping shut a mere micron from his face.

“I will not say it,” said Megatron, optics bright. “I will not lie here and beg for your attentions like some _Autobot_ ,” he spat the word as though it tasted foul. “And if you wish me to do so, you will have to make me.” His mouth spread in a toothy, unpleasant grin. “That is, if you dare.”

There was no way Megatron could have fathomed it, but his words, so close to those that Optimus had conjured and constructed and replayed so many times, made something snap inside him. He shoved Megatron’s hands up, out of the way. “Keep them there.”

Megatron shuddered, but his expression was defiant. “And if I refuse?”

“Then I shall leave. And you may go back to the _Nemesis_ , to self-service and think on what could have been.”

Megatron raised an optic ridge. “Speaking from experience, Prime?” But he left his hands where they were.

Optimus ignored the comment and took the opportunity to look Megatron over. His plating was loose, flared to help dissipate heat and he was panting slightly. His interface hatch was still firmly shut, but as Optimus shifted, he could just catch the gleam of lubricant seeping from the seams.

He ran one hand down Megatron’s side, a gentling motion as he felt out his chassis and legs, familiar shapes made unfamiliar by new context. “There must be rules.”

“Why am I not surprised? You always did love rules.”

“I am quite serious, Megatron.” He withdrew his hand. “I am willing to give you satisfaction, but there are conditions.”

“Frag me well enough and I’ll likely forget to try and pump you for intelligence,” Megatron’s tone was thick with amused innuendo.

Optimus gave a smart tap against a particular sensitive sensor and Megatron jumped. “That goes without saying,” Optimus said dryly. “But that was not what I meant.”

“Oh?”

Withdrawing his hands to make sure Megatron was paying attention, Optimus pitched his voice to that familiar tone of command. “You will communicate your wishes clearly at all times. You will inform me immediately if anything causes you genuine discomfort.”

Megatron scoffed. “I am hardly going to lie still if you do something which displeases me.”

“I am counting on that,” said Optimus, suppressing the urge to sigh. “But I should also hope you capable of conveying your displeasure without inflicting bodily harm.”

Megatron looked rather put-upon, but at Optimus’s steely look he nodded grudgingly. “Very well, Prime. If you are so _squeamish_ , I shall make it known if at any time you do something unacceptable.” His tone indicated extreme doubt that Optimus was capable of doing anything he might find unacceptable.

Optimus fought back a smile and nodded, all seriousness. “One thing further, in the spirit of clear and unambiguous communication, you will at all times provide a running narration of your responses to what I do to you.”

Megatron’s mouth fell open in outrage. “You!”

“Those are my terms, Megatron. You may take them or leave them.”

Megatron’s fangs came together with such force that they raised sparks. For several moments he was silent, his expression murderous before he gritted out, “Very well, Prime.”

Trusting that Megatron would remain where he’d left him, Optimus lifted himself off his body and scooted down between his legs. Megatron was seeping lubricant steadily from the edges of his hatch and he gave a slight squirm as Optimus settled in for a better look. This close, Optimus caught the sound of tiny mechanisms engaging and quickly pressed his thumb against the surface of the hatch, halting it before it could retract.

Megatron made a small sound of displeasure. “Hurry up, Prime. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“Patience, Megatron,” his processor was racing, trying to determine the best course of action. His battle computer, still half-engaged, offered him an idea and he took it gratefully. His free hand transformed, blaster engaging and humming to life.

Megatron went rigid beneath him and his optics spiraled open. “Prime...” he said warningly.

“Easy,” Optimus said. “I will put it away if you wish, but I will not harm you. It is for another purpose.”

The seconds stretched out and Optimus could see Megatron wrestling against what must be quite active battle protocols before relaxing beneath him, though his optics were still suspicious. Optimus rewarded the gesture by pressing the flat of the barrel up against Megatron’s interface hatch and cycling the weapon higher, allowing energy to build and discharge, transmitting vibrations and flickers of energy across the barrier of the hatch.

Megatron’s hands clenched and he pushed against the blaster. Optimus stroked his thigh, playing with the spaces between the plates. “Remember our agreement.”

Megatron made a derisive sound. “It feels pleasant, Prime, don’t be a fool.”

“Not good enough.” He cycled the weapon up another notch and Megatron cursed and writhed beneath him. “Tell me, what do you feel?”

“Vibrations,” snapped Megatron. “As one might if they put a _vibrating object up against a piece of metal_.”

“Where do you feel them?” said Optimus, utterly placid.

“Where do you think?”

Optimus backed off, leaving the blaster close enough that Megatron could feel the heat and faint tremors. “Where?”

“In my _valve_ , you glitched oaf, is that what you wante--ah!” Optimus pressed the blaster back against him and Megatron bucked.

“Very good,” Optimus said. He cycled the blaster back down before transforming his hand back. Megatron gave a disappointed groan. “Now that you have communicated where you would like attention, I believe it might be beneficial to show me.”

“I am going to murder you,” snarled Megatron, even as his interface hatch slid back. “Your medic will never be able to find all the pieces.”

Optimus leaned forward and vented hot air against the newly exposed valve, reaching up to push Megatron’s spike back before it could pressurize. The valve contracted in response and Megatron cursed again. “Promises,” Optimus said mildly.

Optimus’s experience with valves aside from his own was limited, and he couldn’t help taking a moment to examine Megatron’s. The opening was lined with folds and sensors and lubricant trickled from it in a steady stream. And as Megatron shifted and it spiraled open in a futile, grasping motion, Optimus caught a glimpse of tiny glowing sensors. He traced the rim and watched the myriad points of light wink in and out of existence.

It was strangely beautiful.

Megatron’s insistent buck brought him back to the present. “Get on with it, Prime.”

Optimus clapped a commanding hand on Megatron’s pelvic span, stilling him. His free hand went to Megatron’s valve, fingers pushing but not entering, not yet. “Is this what you want?” he demanded. “For me to take you this way, here, in the dirt? For me to tear you apart?”

“Yes!” hissed Megatron, optics bright with rage and heat.

“No,” said Optimus, adamant. “I take you, when, where and how I wish. Do you understand?”

Megatron’s optics fairly blazed, and there was a gleam of energon around his fists where his claws had driven in, but his arms remained in place.

From the slickness and give of Megatron’s valve when Optimus slid a finger in, he likely could have taken him without damage at that moment. Nonetheless, Optimus took his time seeking out nodes, mapping by feel what he’d glimpsed by sight, testing the tension of Megatron’s calipers. By the time he had three fingers inside Megatron was snarling and deriding his parentage, his faction allegiance and his interface habits.

Optimus considered adding additional digits but despite the pulse of heat that flared in his spark at the thought of Megatron riding his fist to completion, his logic circuits cautioned against pushing too far too soon. He had no doubt Megatron could handle it, but he didn’t wish for the other mech to muscle on in the name of pride and do himself permanent damage.

Withdrawing, he arranged himself on his knees and reached for Megatron’s legs, scooting forward and draping them across his lap. Megatron made a sound of displeasure, but did not actually protest and after waiting a moment to read his field, Optimus continued. Megatron’s field flickered with unease, but Optimus had expected that, the position was rather exposed and left Megatron’s valve easily visible. He longed to tell Megatron something of how lovely he looked like this, slick and open, plating crawling with charge, but he knew the other mech was unlikely to interpret such a comment as it was intended.

Instead, he withdrew his own interface hatch and allowed his spike to pressurize. A slight tremor rippled through Megatron’s legs as it slid out into the air. Smiling, Optimus bent over Megatron and allowed his spike to slide across the surface of the valve. It slipped against exterior sensors, raising small surges of current, and the heat of it, the knowledge that he might have Megatron after so many lonely nights, had Optimus biting back a moan, his optics dimming as he fought for control.

Megatron’s optics narrowed. “What game are you playing, Prime? Frag me. Now.”

“And so I am,” said Optimus. “But it occurs to me that you have been remiss in holding up your end of our agreement.”

“I have narrated every agonizing detail of this farce, Prime.”

“Your curses and demands that I ‘get on with it’, while colorful and amusing, do not quite qualify.” Optimus picked up the pace, exerting pressure on the exterior nodes on the downstroke. Megatron bucked, trying to take him in, but he quelled the motion with a hand on Megatron’s pelvic span, decreasing the strength of his thrusts so that the head of his spike slipped in and out of Megatron’s valve with each movement, teasing the sensors just inside the rim while denying him pressure and current against those further in. His free hand went to Megatron’s spike housing, and he pressed his thumb inside the sheath, stimulating those sensors on the shaft that he could reach. “Tell me.”

“It feels...” Megatron’s frame fairly vibrated with tension. “It feels invasive.”

“Unpleasantly so?” He slowed his stroking on the spike housing, watching Megatron.

“No.” Optimus cupped his palm around the tip of Megatron’s still-retracted spike and felt him shudder. “But...insufficient.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“In me,” said Megatron. “Optimus, I--” he paused and Optimus could see him fighting, pride warring with overwhelming need. “I want it.” He cycled his vents and snapped, “And just so you don’t get any ideas about ‘not holding up bargains’, I want your _spike_ in my _valve_.”

Optimus smiled. “You have only to ask.”

He pushed in, nosing his spike inside as Megatron panted. His valve was slick enough to be nearly frictionless, but despite Optimus’s work he was still uncomfortably tight, calipers hitching and squeezing around his spike.

“Megatron,” he gritted. “Relax.”

“I’d like to see you relax with something so large jammed in you,” Megatron’s tone was poisonous.

Amused and flattered, Optimus tapped the end of Megatron’s spike and felt him buck. “You forget so quickly. Perhaps you require another demonstration, as you were clearly not paying attention all those ages ago.”

“Not so long,” Megatron muttered.

Something squeezed around Optimus’s spark, sending a little, tender pain through him. His protective protocols onlined and he slid his hands beneath Megatron, helping to adjust him. “Be still,” he murmured. “Keep your fans running and focus on me. Your valve was made for this, made for me. It will open.”

Megatron made a strange sound and then slowly, as agonizing seconds crawled by, Optimus felt the mechanisms of his valve spiral open. He slid in further, and then further until he bumped up against the deepest nodes. The thrust sent a single spike of current through his sensor net and below him Megatron shuddered in answer. He paused for a moment to admire the view.

“Beautiful,” he said.

“Don’t mock me, Prime,” snapped Megatron.

“I am not,” he said. Megatron was slick and warm, comfortably snug now rather than agonizingly tight, and his spike had begun to pressurize in response to the stimulation. Optimus let it, running a brief appreciative hand across it before withdrawing and starting up a steady pace, a slow tempo that sent continual waves of current through their sensor nets.

Megatron grunted in frustration. “Faster, Prime.”

“No,” he said, observing with interest as Megatron jerked beneath him in response to the command. “I will give you what you want, Megatron, but I will not frag you quickly and let you scurry back to the Decepticons, your itch scratched for the time being. You will find your overload how and when I say, not before.”

Megatron growled and tried to thrust against him. Optimus pinned his legs against his lap and halted, halfway inside him still. Megatron’s field spiked with rage, but Optimus kept his own calm, placid, and at last Megatron conceded the standoff, and Optimus continued.

“Can you feel the charge building?” he said. “Feel the current in your systems? In your spark?”

“Yes,” rasped Megatron, optics offline.

“Look at me.”

Megatron’s mouth tightened.

“Megatron, look at me.”

Crimson optics lit and Optimus went deep on the next thrust, grinding up against the external sensors. “Overload for me,” he commanded.

Megatron’s systems tripped and his plating sparked as he overloaded, helm tipped back, frame tensed, a powerful yell ripping through his vocalizer. Optimus wanted to remember that image forever - it was unlike the Megatron he had known, uninhibitedly wrapped up in his own processor, merely _feeling_. Megatron relaxed, strutless satisfaction evident in his whole frame, valve pulsing slowly around Optimus's still pressurized spike.

But before Megatron could completely collect himself, Optimus gripped the spurs of his pelvic plating and picked up a slow pace, gradually increasing the speed of his thrusts. Megatron's pants were turning to low moans, his valve slick and welcoming, his optics offlined, helm turning from side to side. Optimus loved seeing Megatron so wanton below him, so much like his fantasies but infinitely more. He pinned Megatron's wrists above them with one hand, the other pulled one of Megatron's thighs up, changing the angle, hitting nodes deep within Megatron. He groaned, Megatron's legs wrapped around his waist, charge licked around his spike and he pressed in tight and overloaded.

Megatron jerked with the aftershock and his valve clenched. His cooling fans a high whine in his audials, Optimus slumped over Megatron and tried to collect himself.

He’d half expected Megatron to tear himself away immediately, but the other mech lay quite still beneath him. His optics were offline and Optimus could feel the heavy throb of his spark even through his armor.

Optimus’s spike was depressurizing and he retracted it with care. Megatron made a quiet sound as he withdrew, his valve tightening around the tip of his spike before it slipped free, trailing lubricant and transfluid.

Reluctant to break the strange calm that had settled over them, yet not wanting to leave Megatron to dry in his own fluids, Optimus searched his subspace for a square of cleaning mesh and began to wipe Megatron down. He kept his touches light, gentling, his field pulsing pleasure, calmness and approval.

Their bodies had begun to cool, armor pinging and clinking as the temperature decreased.  Megatron’s optics onlined, but remained dim and unfocused. “What now, Prime?” he rasped.

Optimus did not cease his stroking. “I do not know,” he admitted. “For now, rest. Your systems seem strained.”

Megatron laughed hoarsely. “Mine are not the only ones.”

Optimus could not deny that his spark felt lighter, calmer. Not only the interface, but the intimacy, the sense of synchronization between their fields and sparks; only now was he able to allow himself to acknowledge how much he had missed Megatron.

He petted Megatron’s abdominal plating absently. “I always hoped that this might happen,” he confessed. “That I might change your mind.”

Megatron stiffened beneath his hand. “And when, exactly did I say anything about having ‘changed my mind’?” his voice was low and dangerous.

Puzzled, Optimus pulled his hand away. “I thought--”

“You thought what?” Megatron hissed, his optics bright. He rose onto his elbows, narrowed gaze fixed on Optimus. “That one tumble and I’d roll over and be your little berth toy?”

“I don’t--”

“That my convictions are so frail and meaningless that they could not stand in the face of the great Optimus Prime?” Megatron wrenched himself away and rolled to his feet while Optimus stared in shock. “You overestimate your prowess. And I overestimated your ability to frag without turning it into a political manipulation.”

“I wasn’t, I didn’t intend anything of the sort.”

“Of course not,” said Megatron contemptuously. “But here we are just the same.” He stalked away. “This was a foolish mistake.”

“Wait, Megatron--”

“Do not follow me, _Prime_. The next time we meet, it will be in battle.”

Megatron leapt and transformed, streaking across the darkening sky, leaving Optimus with a crumpled mesh cleaning cloth and an aching spark.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Combat Jack](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1207891) by [DexxxtroDNA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DexxxtroDNA/pseuds/DexxxtroDNA)




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